Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8D20TZ9XSFF2WABPVZ4Z1

The pub’s chandelier cast a dim glow over the sticky table where Bill hunched, his fingers tight around a half-pint. “A children’s party,” he repeated, like the words tasted bad. “With *balloons* and *pinatas*? We’re supposed to steal from the *loonies* in the party hats?” Molly sipped her lager, her expression calm enough to melt butter. “Loonies with trust funds, Bill. Mrs. Harlow’s nephew’s getting a milestone—third birthday, same as his sister last year. Last year, she had that *solid silver rattle* made. This year? Probably something equally idiotic. Or *valuable*. You ever try selling a *golden wristband* with a cartoon octopus on it? Rich parents eat that shit up.” Bill shifted, his knee knocking the table. “But the *cake*—it’s got those little sugar flowers. What if we knock over the cake? The mom’ll *kill* us. I can’t stand seeing broken cake.” “Cake’s a distraction,” Molly said, sliding a crumpled map across the table. “The party’s in her barn—” *she paused, wrinkling her nose* “—barn, of all places. But she’s having a ‘Under the Sea’ theme, so she’s stringing fairy lights between the rafters. You’ll grab the presents, I’ll grab the goodie bags. Mom’s too busy hugging a clown to notice if her guests’ pockets go missing. Clowns *always* cause a scene.” She tapped a spot on the map. “Timing: three PM. Dad’s off to mow the lawn. The nanny’s got her back turned to take a smoke. You and your lockpick—” *she nodded at his coat pocket* “—twist that latch on the side door, in and out in ten minutes. I’ll be in the bushes with a fake invitation. ‘Mrs. Harlow sent me—forgot my kid’s gift?’ They’ll let me in. Easy.” Bill stared at the map. “And if the kid *wakes up*? I hate kids. They have these—” *he mimed wide, innocent eyes* “—*squishy* faces. Last week, I tried to steal a lollipop from a toddler, and she grabbed my finger and *screamed*. Her mom *decked* me. Said I ‘terrified her little angel.’” He scoffed. “Angels don’t scream like a wounded badger, and anyway—” *he leaned in, fierce* “—these aren’t *nice* kids. They’ve got better toys than we do. And their toys aren’t *stolen*. They’re *given*. Stolen’s *honorable*. Sort of.” Molly snorted. “‘Sort of,’ huh? When you’re robbing a three-year-old, ‘sort of’ doesn’t cut it with the judge. Besides—” *she pulled a photo from her purse* “—here’s the wristband. The tag says ‘limited edition, only two made.’ Mrs. Harlow *brags* about it. She’ll cry when it’s gone. Good.” Bill sighed, but his eyes were softening. “You sure you don’t want to wait for the office heist? Smith said the safe has a seven-digit combo.” “Office heists are *boring*,” Molly said, tucking the photo away. “This? This is a *adventure*. Plus, imagine the look on those tiny faces when their presents are gone. ‘Where’s my octopus watch?!’ Classic.” She grinned. “Now, you ready? You’ve got ten minutes to practice not looking like a criminal. Act like you’re here for the jelly.” Bill stood, slinging his coat over his shoulder. He paused, then muttered, “Don’t let the cake knock over, okay? For *me*.” Molly winked. “Don’t worry. I’ll save you a slice. The *jelly* slice.” They slipped out the door, Molly humming, Bill scowling but smiling. Somewhere, a radio played “Baby Shark,” and somewhere else, a three-year-old was about to lose her golden octopus. But that was their business. The pub’s chandelier flickered, as if laughing. (Word count: 500)