Run: 2026-09-23-01M36T1J0NV27RFARNR8JWVC6G

Bill spread the floor plan across the parking lot hood of his beat-up sedan, leaning over it like a general about to invade Normandy. Molly stood beside him, arms crossed, chewing a piece of gum so aggressively it seemed like she was trying to destroy it personally. Alright, listen up, Bill said, tapping a marker against the diagram of the Henderson residence. The party starts at two. Presents arrive by one-thirty. We move at one-forty-five. One-forty-five? Molly raised an eyebrow. That leaves forty-five minutes of presents unguarded? What are you, an amateur? Forty-five minutes gives us the cushion we need. Too early and the parents are still decorating. Too late and we're fighting Clowns for the door. Molly stared at him. You're afraid of clowns? I'm afraid of anyone wearing a red nose at one-forty-five, Bill said. Now pay attention. The living room has fourteen wrapping stations. The hallway closet holds the overflow. That's where we'll hit first. How many gifts are we talking? Henderson sent invitations to thirty-one kids. Assuming each parent buys an average of two presents, that's sixty-two gifts minimum. Molly whistled low. Sixty-two stolen items. My mother would be so proud. She always said I had sticky fingers. Your mother also said you were going to be a surgeon, Bill muttered, folding the map. That was before I discovered crime pays better and has a more flexible schedule. Molly popped her gum. So what's the entry point? Back sliding door. I tested it last week during the grandparents' brunch. It sticks but gives with a good hip check. A hip check? That's your plan? You want to shoulder-barge your way into a children's party? Nobody expects a hip check. That's what makes it brilliant. Molly considered this. Fine. And once we're inside? Bill pulled out a list. We grab the closet first. Quick in, quick out. Then we hit the living room piles and split them between the bags. We move fast and quiet. Quiet? Molly asked. It's a children's party. There will be thirty screaming kids. That's our cover. While every parent is trapped in the chaos, we walk right through the room collecting gifts. We just blend in. Blend in? You're forty-seven and wearing a black turtleneck. Bill looked down at himself. What's wrong with a turtleneck? For a children's party in July, everything. Molly grabbed a duffel bag from the trunk. Now are we doing this or not? Those toys aren't going to steal themselves. Bill zipped up the bag. Same as always. We move like ghosts and leave no trace. Molly grinned. The ghosts of Christmas gifts. Let's go. Bill didn't laugh, but he almost smiled, which for him was practically a standing ovation.