Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HV2KBK0QF2RN9VRYBPF8W

Molly spread the crinkled neighborhood map across the café table and pinned the corners with sugar jars as if she were commanding a military campaign instead of plotting to rob a seven-year-old’s birthday party. Outside, rain glazed the streetlights and turned the parked cars into suspicious-looking beetles. Bill leaned in so close his nose nearly dipped into the whipped cream on her abandoned cocoa. “The clown arrives at two,” Molly said. “That’s our window.” Bill frowned. “I hate clowns. They move like people with tax problems.” “Focus. Party starts at one-thirty, cake at three, sugar crash by four. At two-fifteen, the parents will be trapped in the yard pretending to enjoy sack races. We go in through the side gate, cross the kitchen, hit the present table, and vanish before anyone notices little Oakley has been financially restructured.” Bill glanced at the map, then toward the rainy glass as if expecting moral lightning. “Children’s presents, Moll? Isn’t that low, even for us?” Molly sat back. “Bill, last month we stole a retired dentist’s commemorative spoon collection.” “He was insured.” “So are children, emotionally. They recover in weeks.” Bill rubbed his chin. “What kind of presents are we expecting?” “Affluent district, only child, dinosaur theme. Remote-control monsters, tablets, cash in cards from divorced uncles trying to compete. Maybe one educational toy no one wants.” He brightened slightly. “Cash in cards is cleaner.” She tapped the map near a square marked SUNROOM. “Presents here. Balloon arch here. Dog likely here.” “Likely?” “The mother’s social media shows a golden retriever wearing a bow tie. Name: Colonel Wiggles.” Bill shuddered. “Animals with titles are trouble.” At the next table an elderly man lowered his newspaper, squinted at them, and then apparently decided they were discussing amateur theater. Molly lowered her voice anyway. “We need disguises.” “I’ve got a caterer’s jacket,” Bill said. “You have a jacket that says ‘Pete’s Crematory’ on the back.” “In script. People won’t read it fast.” Molly considered this with the grim professionalism of a jeweler assessing a cracked diamond. “Fine. I’ll go as a balloon artist.” “Can you make balloons into things?” “I can make them into evidence if squeezed hard enough.” Bill took out a notebook labeled IDEAS / CHEESE and licked the pencil tip. “Escape route?” “Over the back fence, through the alley, into my hatchback.” “The hatchback still smells like eels.” “That is a tactical deterrent.” A waitress refilled their coffees. Bill waited until she left, then whispered, “What if the child sees us?” Molly smiled thinly. “Then we improvise. You’re a magician.” “I can’t do magic.” “You can make sincerity disappear.” He sighed. “And if the dog attacks?” “Bring ham.” “For the dog?” “For whoever’s fastest.” The rain thickened, drumming the window. Molly folded the map with ceremonial precision and slipped it into her coat. Bill looked pale now, the way he always did before a job, as if conscience were a physical ailment and he’d eaten spoiled shellfish. “There is one more thing,” he said. “What?” “I was never invited to many parties as a kid.” Molly paused. “Is this guilt or nostalgia?” “A bit of both. Mostly envy. I wanted one of those gift tables. Mountains of brightly wrapped proof that people tolerated me.” Her expression softened by half an inch. “Bill.” “So maybe,” he said, “we don’t take all the presents.” She stared. “Maybe just the good ones. Leave the socks, the puzzle, the weird science kit. The child still has a birthday. We still make rent.” Molly drummed her fingers once, twice. Then she nodded. “Fine. We steal selectively.” Bill exhaled. “That feels better.” She stood, tossing bills onto the table. “Good. Then we’re not monsters.” Bill rose with her. “What are we?” Molly pulled on her gloves and headed for the door. “Professionals with standards.” From outside came the distant honk of a party store van. Bill peered through the window and groaned. “The clown,” he muttered. Molly smiled like a lock about to give way. “Perfect. Let’s go ruin a childhood responsibly.”