Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HSS83H251GAGKRA5ZCCS3

“Tell me again,” Molly said, flattening a crayon drawing on the café table like it was a military map, “why we are robbing a birthday party.” “Because,” Bill said, stirring his tea with the tiny plastic sword from a sundae, “it’s the perfect crime. No one suspects a man in a paper hat.” “I suspect a man in a paper hat immediately.” “That’s because you’ve met me.” Molly tapped the drawing. “This is a house with a sun in the corner and what I think is a dog the size of a bus.” “That,” Bill said with dignity, “is reconnaissance.” “That is artwork by a six-year-old named Poppy.” “Exactly. Innocence is the best surveillance.” She leaned back and eyed him. “So your source is the birthday girl.” “Our source,” Bill corrected. “I merely befriended her at the bakery queue.” “You befriended a child to obtain tactical information about sponge cake and gift placement.” Bill smiled. “And bouncy-castle positioning. Don’t forget the bouncy castle. It blocks sightlines from the patio.” Molly rubbed her temple. “There are easier things to steal than thirty individually wrapped presents from a room full of sugared children.” “Name one.” “A car.” “Too many keys.” “A painting.” “Too much culture.” “A diamond.” “Too pointy.” She stared. “Too pointy.” “I had an incident.” Molly sighed. “Fine. Talk me through it.” Bill sat up. “Three o’clock. Guests arrive. Three-fifteen, face painting. Three-thirty, magician. That’s our window.” “Why during the magician?” “Because every child on earth will be watching a man pull misery out of a hat.” “Rabbits.” “Sometimes misery. Depends on the rabbit.” A waiter passed; Bill lowered his voice theatrically. “You go in as Balloon Aunt.” “I beg your pardon?” “You’re good with animals.” “Balloons are not animals.” “They have the same eyes.” “I’m not twisting balloons.” “Then cake staff.” “I have the balance of a disgruntled horse. One tray and the operation becomes custard.” Bill nodded. “Valid. Then you’re a parent.” “A parent to whom?” “To little... Oscar.” “There’ll be an actual Oscar.” “Not after we improvise.” Molly folded her arms. “And what are you?” Bill beamed. “Magician’s assistant.” She barked a laugh. “You?” “I have stage presence.” “You have the posture of a dropped mop.” “Cruel, and also useful in disguise.” Outside, rain ticked at the window. Molly glanced down at the drawing again. Streamers, cake, a rectangle marked PRESENTS with six exclamation points. “So we take the lot and leave,” she said. “How? In our pockets?” Bill reached under the table and produced a tartan shopping trolley. “The Chariot.” Molly blinked. “Absolutely not.” “No one questions a shopping trolley at a family event. It says, ‘I came prepared for disappointment.’” “It says, ‘I knit aggressively.’” “Even better. Invisible.” She laughed despite herself. “What’s in the presents?” Bill spread his hands. “Potential. Toys, gadgets, cash in cards, perhaps the occasional scandalously expensive educational device.” “You just want to open them.” “I want,” Bill said, “to liberate them from sticky hands.” “Bill, they belong to the sticky hands.” “Temporarily.” She drummed her fingers. “There’s always one aunt who guards the gifts like a dragon on a pension.” “Yes,” he said. “I’ve accounted for that. I flirt.” “With the aunt?” “With anyone necessary.” “That is not a plan. That is a medical condition.” Bill leaned forward. “Molly, listen. Balloons. Noise. Parents pretending to enjoy juice boxes. A magician misdirecting the masses. We slide in, wheel out the loot, and vanish before they sing.” “They’ll notice before the first verse.” “Not if we leave a decoy.” “A decoy present?” “A large box. Weighted. Festive.” “With what?” He considered. “Potatoes.” Molly stared at him for a long moment, then smiled the slow smile that usually preceded disaster. “All right.” Bill blinked. “All right?” “All right. But if I have to make conversation with a woman named Trish about gluten-free fairy bread, you owe me three weeks’ rent.” “Done.” “And if you call that trolley the Chariot again, I walk.” Bill placed a hand over his heart. “Understood.” A beat passed. “Bill,” Molly said. “Yes?” “What exactly did Poppy say about the dog?” Bill looked at the drawing. “Ah.” “It is a real dog, isn’t it?” “A very festive one.” “How festive?” He winced. “It has a cape.” Molly stood, grabbed her coat, and drained his tea in one grim swallow. “We are going to steal presents from a house guarded by a birthday dog in a cape.” Bill rose with the trolley and grinned. “Now it sounds worth doing.”