Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HTC29VHT9993RX335JY1D

Molly and Bill crouched behind the bins outside Number Twelve, where the back garden blazed with fairy lights and the shrieks of seven-year-olds hopped over the fence like caffeinated birds. The evening smelled of wet grass, sausage rolls, and icing so sugary it seemed to sting the nose. Bill peered through a knot-hole in the fence. “That’s a lot of presents.” “Focus,” Molly whispered. “You’re sounding emotional.” “I’m sounding practical. There’s enough wrapping paper in there to bankrupt a forest.” Molly adjusted the black wool cap over her curls and unfolded a hand-drawn map of the house. It had arrows, timings, and one section labeled DOG? in increasingly irritated capitals. “The loot table is by the conservatory doors. We go through the side gate, cross the patio, grab everything, and out through the alley in under ninety seconds.” Bill frowned. “Everything?” “That is what ‘all the presents’ has traditionally meant.” A child’s voice rose above the party din, announcing something about a magician and a missing guinea pig. A chorus of delighted screams followed. Bill winced. “I don’t like stealing to the soundtrack of joy.” “You didn’t say that about the mayor’s retirement buffet.” “The vol-au-vents were different. They were abandoned.” Molly folded the map with military precision. She was small, neat, and sharp enough to cut cheese by looking at it. Bill, by contrast, had the slouching air of a man forever apologizing to furniture after bumping into it. Together, they had committed twelve burglaries, three art thefts, and one regrettable misunderstanding involving a mobile petting zoo. From the garden came a burst of applause. Then music. Then a synthetic voice shouting, “Who wants a balloon sword?” Bill paled. “This is escalating.” “Good,” said Molly. “Chaos is cover.” She opened her canvas satchel and checked the tools: glass cutter, torch, gloves, cable ties, and a packet of party blowers she insisted were for camouflage. Bill held up a cone hat decorated with dinosaurs. “Do I have to wear this?” “If challenged, you are a tired uncle.” “I don’t have tired-uncle energy. I have suspicious-guest energy.” “You have many energies, Bill. Use the least incriminating one.” The side gate clicked open under Molly’s careful hand. They slipped into the garden, keeping low behind a row of hydrangeas. Beyond them the party sprawled in glorious chaos: children streaked with face paint, a woman carrying a cake shaped like a volcano, and at the far end a magician in a purple tailcoat trying to extract scarves from a toaster. Near the conservatory sat the prize: a long table stacked with brightly wrapped parcels, gift bags, and bows big enough to moor a yacht. Bill stared. “There must be twenty.” “Twenty-three,” Molly said. “I counted.” “You count presents now?” “I count opportunities.” They dashed to the table. Molly began loading gifts into the sack with terrifying efficiency. Bill picked up a box that rattled. “This one sounds educational.” “Take it anyway.” A little girl appeared at the conservatory door, glaring at them through butterfly face paint. She was missing one front tooth and carried a balloon sword like an officer. Bill froze. Molly smiled brightly. “Uncle Pete sent us,” she said. The girl narrowed her eyes. “We haven’t got an Uncle Pete.” Molly did not blink. “That,” she said, hoisting the bulging sack onto Bill’s shoulder, “is why he sends presents instead of coming in person.” The girl considered this with the grave suspicion of childhood. Behind her, the magician shouted, “And now, the grand finale!” Every child in the garden turned at once. “Run,” hissed Molly. “I was about to suggest that.” They bolted for the gate just as a fountain of glitter erupted behind them, coating the lawn, the hydrangeas, and most of Bill in sparkling silver. He looked, as they skidded into the alley, like a burglar who had lost a fight with a disco ball. Molly glanced at him, grinning despite herself. “Subtle.” Bill puffed under the weight of the sack. “If anyone asks, I’m a tired uncle.”