Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GW1YB72MAW7JZCPKG6GNN

Molly spread a hand-drawn map across the café table, flattening it with the salt shaker and Bill’s untouched custard tart. Outside, rain glazed the high street; inside, the radiator hissed like a gossip. “Children’s party,” Bill muttered, peering at the map. “I can rob a bank without blinking, but one balloon arch and I become morally winded.” “You’re not robbing children,” Molly said. “You’re robbing their parents, which is practically community service.” “That is the sort of sentence that gets embroidered on a prison cushion.” She tapped the sketch. “Village hall. One entrance, one fire exit, three windows painted with smiling dinosaurs. Presents stacked on this table by the cake.” Bill looked up. “How do you know there’ll be a cake?” “Mothers cannot gather in groups without producing sponge. It’s biology.” He sipped tea and winced. “And your plan is what? We stroll in dressed as uncles no one remembers?” “Better. Entertainers.” Bill stared. “I beg your criminal pardon?” “Children trust nonsense in waistcoats. You’ll be a magician.” “I can’t do magic.” “You stole a police horse in Doncaster.” “That was not magic. That was panic with reins.” Molly smiled. “I’ll be face painter. We get in early, set up near the gifts, create a distraction, then out through the fire exit with the haul.” Bill leaned back as a waitress passed, eyeing their map with the weary suspicion reserved for people who definitely weren’t planning a felony. He flipped the paper over and lowered his voice. “What kind of presents are we expecting?” “Remote-control cars, dolls, plastic kitchens, one aggressively educational telescope, maybe a bicycle if the grandparents are divorced.” Bill’s expression softened. “I did like telescopes.” “You may not keep a telescope.” “What if it’s very educational?” “No souvenirs. That’s how amateurs become evidence.” He rubbed his chin. “I still think magician is risky. Children are ruthless. Adults clap when you produce a coin. Children ask why it’s damp.” “Fine,” Molly said. “Balloon artist.” “I know even less about balloons.” “You inflate them and regret your life.” Bill considered. “That, I can perform convincingly.” A burst of shrieking laughter came from the next table where a toddler was mashing cake into a spoon with a kind of religious commitment. Bill watched him with dread. “They’re sticky,” he whispered. “Yes, Bill, children are famously lacquered.” “I’m serious. One hug and our whole operation smells like yogurt tubes.” Molly folded the map. “Listen carefully. Arrival at two. Presents start piling up by quarter past. Cake at three. During candles, every adult will be filming through a phone held vertically like a fool. That’s our window.” “And if someone asks who hired us?” “We say ‘Sandra.’ There’s always a Sandra.” “And if there isn’t?” “Then there should have been. Confidence is half of crime.” Bill nodded slowly. “Transport?” “Van round the alley. Engine running. I’ve borrowed magnetic signs that say Professor Pop and Binky’s Amazing Party Fun.” He blinked. “There is no Binky.” “There will be for ninety profitable minutes.” He began to grin despite himself. “What’s my costume?” Molly reached into her bag and produced a purple waistcoat and a bow tie patterned with rabbits in top hats. Bill recoiled. “I’d rather be arrested as myself.” “You’ll be arrested as a man named Binky, which is funnier.” He took the bow tie between two fingers. “If I survive this, I’m stealing something elegant next. Diamonds. Bonds. A senator.” “Today,” Molly said, standing, “we steal wrapping paper and hope. Try on the waistcoat.” Bill sighed, rising with the tart still in his hand. “If a child asks me to make a balloon giraffe, I’m surrendering immediately.” “Good,” said Molly. “Nothing disarms suspicion like a realistic breakdown.”