Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HGW33B1DPVYSMZQ8JNBK5

Molly and Bill crouched behind the hedge of Mrs. Wexler’s garden, glaring at a backyard that looked less like a birthday party and more like a sugar-powered military installation. Balloons bobbed from every fence post, a rented clown lurked by the lemonade table with the dead-eyed patience of a prison guard, and in the center of it all sat the present pile: a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes glittering beneath a banner that read HAPPY 7TH, OLIVER! in letters the size of legal warnings. Bill adjusted the tiny pair of binoculars he’d stolen from a birdwatcher in Bath. “I’m telling you, Molly, this is vulnerable. Soft target. No one expects organized crime in a bouncy castle perimeter.” Molly brushed leaves from her sleeves and stared at him. “No one respectable says ‘soft target’ about a seven-year-old’s birthday.” “I’m not being disrespectful. I’m being tactical.” “You’re wearing a waistcoat with ducks on it.” “That is my disguise.” She peered through the hedge. A woman in a paper crown carried out a tray of iced buns like an overworked priestess of chaos. Children shot across the lawn in random zigzags, each one sticky, shrieking, and moving with the tactical unpredictability of drunken sparrows. “I hate jobs with minors,” Molly muttered. “They have no sense of routine and fingers permanently coated in jam.” Bill nodded gravely. “Jam is a force multiplier.” They watched as one boy licked a window for reasons known only to him and perhaps Satan. “All right,” said Molly. “Talk me through your ridiculous plan.” Bill straightened. “Phase one: infiltration. We enter as entertainers.” Molly turned slowly toward him. “Entertainers.” “Yes. It’s a party. People hire things. Magicians, jugglers, women with face paints and eyes that have seen too much.” “And what exactly are you?” Bill gave her an injured look. “I can do balloon animals.” “You made me a balloon ferret once. It looked like a cursed intestine.” “It was abstract.” She considered the present pile again, stacked temptingly beside the patio doors. “No. Too much exposure. Too many witnesses under four feet tall.” “Fine,” Bill said. “Phase two: diversion. We release the pony.” “There’s a pony?” “There’s always a pony at this tax bracket.” Molly scanned the garden and spotted it at the far end, tied to a post and wearing a pink ribbon with the expression of an accountant nearing retirement. “Even if there is a pony, we are not weaponizing it.” Bill shrugged. “Your conscience is what keeps this partnership poor.” A shriek erupted from the lawn as the clown began folding napkins into hats. Molly rubbed her temple. “What about service entry?” Bill pointed with the binoculars. “Side gate. Caterers used it. Opens to the alley. Presents are five yards from the French doors. We slip in during cake.” “Because?” “Because every adult in Britain becomes briefly useless when a child is blowing out candles. They all lean in like they’re witnessing the moon landing.” Molly’s expression softened into professional interest. “Cake creates emotional fog.” “Exactly.” “And the singing provides acoustic cover.” Bill grinned. “Now you’re baking.” She ignored that. “We need transport.” “The laundry cart in the alley.” “The one with ‘Wexler Event Linens’ painted on it?” “Nothing says innocence like folded napkins.” Molly took one last look through the hedge. Oliver himself stood by the gifts in a pirate hat, proudly smacking a plastic sword against his own leg. “He’s guarding the pile.” Bill lowered the binoculars. “He’s seven.” “He’s armed.” “Plastic cutlass. Limited lethality.” “Psychological effect,” Molly said. From the patio came a woman’s voice: “Cake in five minutes!” Bill’s eyes lit up. “This is it.” Molly rose into a crouch, sharp and elegant as a cat preparing to commit fraud. “We go through the side gate, hug the wall, wait for the first verse of ‘Happy Birthday,’ and clear the gifts before the second. No improvising.” Bill placed a hand over his heart. “Molly, when have I ever improvised?” She stared at him until, from somewhere in his jacket, a squeaky rubber chicken fell into the shrubbery. Bill coughed. “Operational mascot.” Molly sighed. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming the ducks on your waistcoat.” “If this goes right,” Bill said, “we’ll be home by tea opening puzzles, toy dinosaurs, and whatever rich children want nowadays.” A roar of off-key singing rose from the garden. Molly smiled, thin as a lockpick. “Come on, then. Let’s ruin a childhood efficiently.”