Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HXQBA9EHDAX3EMH41B1AC

Molly and Bill crouched behind the hedges of Number Twelve, where balloons bobbed like fat, cheerful witnesses and a banner shouted HAPPY EIGHTH, OLIVER! in letters the size of felony charges. From the garden came the shriek of sugar-powered children and the damp thud of a clown losing authority. Bill adjusted his black turtleneck, which in daylight made him look less like a criminal mastermind and more like an unpopular mime. Molly, wearing a cardigan with pockets deep enough for larceny, studied the patio table where the presents sat in a glorious pile of ribboned temptation. “Grab and grin,” Bill whispered. “Grin less,” Molly murmured. A magician in a sequined waistcoat produced a coin from a child’s ear, to riotous applause, while a woman in a paper crown wrestled with a jug of orange squash. Nobody watched the gift table except a sausage dog in a bow tie, and even he seemed morally compromised. Molly checked the route: through the side gate, past the paddling pool, under the banner, seize the loot, out through the alley before the cake was cut and civilization collapsed into icing. Bill inhaled, determined and slightly wheezy. Molly gave him a firm nod. Together they moved with the solemn grace of idiots entering history, toward the mountain of presents and whatever tiny, glittering doom awaited them there.