Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1H04PH5JXJHEBY64ZN8Q93

Molly crouched behind the hedge with the solemn concentration of a surgeon and the footwear of a nightclub singer. Across the street, balloons bobbed above a semi-detached house like brightly colored surveillance devices. Through the bay window came shrieks, the thump of game music, and the unmistakable war cry of sugar-rich children. Bill adjusted his flat cap and peered over the leaves with the expression of a man considering a career change. “Tell me again,” he whispered, “why we’re robbing a birthday party instead of a bank, an art gallery, or literally anyone with less frosting?” “Because,” said Molly, checking a tiny pair of opera glasses, “banks have guards, galleries have lasers, and children’s parties have distracted adults and a gift table by the stairs.” “That sentence has the moral character of a rat.” “Good. Rats survive.” A clown in a yellow waistcoat stumbled past the front window, pursued by three children armed with foam swords. Bill winced. “I don’t like clowns.” “You don’t like authority, vegetables, or enclosed hats either. Keep focused.” “I’m focused on the fact that there are twenty-seven children in there.” “Twenty-four,” Molly said. “Three already left. One crying, two sticky.” Bill stared at her. “You counted them?” “I count everything. Entrances, exits, presents, tiny hosts.” “And how many presents?” “Thirty-one visible. Four bottle-shaped, probably for the parents. One suspiciously bicycle-sized.” Bill’s eyes gleamed. “Bicycle-sized.” “Don’t get romantic. We’re here for volume. Toys are liquid assets.” He rubbed his hands. “So what’s the play?” Molly pointed with one gloved finger. “You go in as the magician’s assistant.” “The magician has an assistant?” “He will in seven minutes.” “And what am I assisting him with?” “Confusion. I’ve already arranged for the actual assistant to be delayed by a very adhesive caramel incident.” Bill blinked. “Molly, that’s monstrous.” “Thank you. While you’re inside, you compliment the mothers, avoid the fathers, and stack the presents into those black bin liners.” “Bin liners? Nothing says innocence like a man carrying away bin liners from a child’s home.” “They’re festive bin liners. I glued stars on them.” Bill exhaled heavily. “And you?” “I’ll enter through the side gate disguised as a professional face painter.” “You can paint faces?” “No, but neither can most face painters. It’s all tigers with emotional problems. Once I’m in, I’ll create a queue of children demanding dolphins, which buys us ten minutes.” A burst of screaming rose from the house, followed by the crash of something expensive becoming educational. Bill tugged at his collar. “What if one of them recognizes me?” “From where? Prison?” “From the leisure centre. I was banned from the soft play.” Molly lowered the glasses. “Bill, if a six-year-old identifies you while hyped on jelly and betrayal, I’ll improvise.” “That’s what frightens me. Your improvising once involved a goat.” “And we got out, didn’t we?” “We got out separately and in court.” She smiled. “Details. Listen: at precisely three fifteen, the cake comes out. Every adult with a camera will turn into a maniac. That’s our window.” “And if they sing?” “Then move quietly.” “I hate stealing during songs. It feels rude.” Molly rose, smoothing her jacket. “We are burglars, Bill, not philistines. We’ll be gone before the second verse.” He looked once more at the balloons, the window, the teetering mountain of ribboned loot. “I still think this is low.” “Low risk,” she corrected. A child opened the front door and hurled a sausage roll onto the lawn. Bill sighed. “Right. If anyone asks, I’m called Sparkles.” “Convincing. Try not to look like you smoke indoors.” “And you?” “I’m Madame Rainbow.” “That’s absurd.” She slipped on a plastic smile and produced a palette of paints like a gunslinger drawing steel. “Bill, in five minutes we shall be the least absurd people at that party.” From inside came a chorus of tiny voices beginning Happy Birthday with all the mercy of a fire alarm. Molly nodded toward the gate. “On the high note,” she said. Bill squared his shoulders. “For the bicycle-sized one.” “For all of them,” Molly said, and together they crossed the street like doomed, glittering professionals.