Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GBWNYDXDCQZ7N2HNQEN6R

“Molly, this is low,” Bill whispered, peering over the hedge at the blazing suburban garden. “Even for us, this is ankle-height.” “Presents are presents,” Molly said. “Wrapped goods do not become morally bulletproof because they’re wearing balloons.” “They’re for children.” “Children are temporary. Watches are forever.” Bill adjusted his flat cap and squinted at the yard. “There’s a clown.” “That is not a clown,” said Molly. “That is a father having a breakdown in primary colors.” “He’s making balloon swords.” “Good. Let them arm themselves with rubber. We go in through the side gate, mingle, identify the gift table, lift the lot, and vanish before anyone notices the magician’s rabbit has two fewer cousins.” Bill looked scandalized. “We are not stealing rabbits.” “I’m setting a mood, Bill. Keep up.” From the garden came a shriek of delighted laughter, then a thud, then adult applause of the sort reserved for non-fatal accidents. Bill sighed. “I preferred museums. Quiet floors. Serious lighting. Guards with a sense of shame.” “Museums have laser grids now. Children’s parties have juice boxes and inattentive uncles. Adaptation is survival.” “What’s our cover?” Molly reached into her bag and handed him a cone-shaped paper hat. “We’re distant relatives.” “Of whom?” “Everyone at a party has distant relatives. Put the hat on.” “I look ridiculous.” “You always look ridiculous. This simply gives it structure.” Bill put on the hat with the grief of a man lowering a flag. “And if they ask which side of the family?” “Say, ‘The disappointing side.’ No one will question it.” They slipped through the side gate and paused beside a table sagging under crisps, cupcakes, and a bowl of luminous blue punch. Bill hissed, “There’s the presents. Under the gazebo. Twenty, maybe twenty-five boxes. This is obscene.” “This,” Molly said, smiling, “is inventory.” A small boy ran past wearing a pirate patch and shouted, “Mum! Liam licked the bouncy castle again!” “See?” Molly murmured. “Chaos. Nature’s camouflage.” A woman carrying paper plates stopped in front of them. “Oh! Hello! Are you with Sophie’s dad?” Molly beamed. “Regrettably, yes.” The woman laughed in instant recognition of some private family misery and moved on. Bill stared. “That was witchcraft.” “That was confidence. Now, you take the far end of the table. I’ll distract.” “With what?” Molly snatched a kazoo from a party bag. “With culture.” Before Bill could object, she marched toward the cluster of children and blew a long, appalling note. Heads turned. The father in face paint looked relieved beyond language. “Right!” Molly cried. “Who wants a competition for loudest pirate noise?” An explosive chorus answered her. Bill darted to the gift table. “Good grief,” he muttered, lifting parcels into a giant black bin bag hidden inside his jacket. “A dinosaur. Two dolls. Something educational, poor devil. Is this one making ticking sounds?” “Probably a science kit,” Molly called over a storm of “Arrr!” from the children. “Or a puppy. Keep moving.” A girl narrowed her eyes at Bill. “Who are you?” Bill froze. “I’m… the Parcel Inspector.” “What’s that?” “I inspect parcels,” Bill said. “For… parcelness.” The girl considered this with the grave suspicion unique to seven-year-olds. “You’re weird.” “Professionally.” Molly swooped in, still kazoing. “Excellent pirate observation! And you’ve won a cupcake mission. Go tell the clown he’s under arrest.” The girl gasped with purpose and sprinted away. Bill exhaled. “That child nearly ended me.” “They’re sharper than alarms,” Molly said. “How many left?” “Three. No, four. One of them is shaped like a crocodile.” “Take the crocodile. We’re not leaving hostages.” The bin bag bulged obscenely. Bill slung it over his shoulder. “And now?” “Now,” said Molly, removing her paper hat and tossing it onto the punch table, “we depart during the cake.” As if summoned, a voice yelled, “Everyone gather round! Time to sing!” Molly and Bill slid toward the gate with the rest of the adults. Bill murmured, “You know, somewhere a line existed, and we’ve tap-danced over it.” Molly opened the gate. “Bill, if you’re going to have ethics, don’t do it while carrying a sack of toy dinosaurs.” From behind them rose the first off-key bars of “Happy Birthday.” Bill winced. “That’s dreadful.” “Yes,” Molly said, stepping into the alley. “But profitable.”