Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1J794DBA40FDD2VXB9QND8

“Tell me again,” Molly said, flattening the crinkled street map on the café table, “why we’re robbing a seven-year-old’s birthday party instead of, say, a bank with adults in it.” “Because,” Bill said, stirring his tea with a steak knife he’d produced from somewhere alarming, “banks have guards, cameras, dye packs, and a general dislike of whimsy. Children’s parties have sponge cake, distracted parents, and gift tables stacked like tribute to our profession.” “That is the most criminal sentence I’ve heard this week.” “And yet not inaccurate.” Molly tapped the map. “All right. Venue?” “Community hall on Larch Street. Two exits. One main door for guests, one kitchen door for caterers, magicians, and opportunists.” “We are not going in as magicians.” “Why not? I’ve got a cape.” “You’ve got a curtain with neck ties.” “It reads as theatrical in poor lighting.” She sighed. “No capes. We blend in.” “With children?” “With adults, Bill. We’re not crawling through a ball pit in striped jumpers and fake braces.” Bill considered this. “Pity. I’d have committed.” “Of course you would. What’s the schedule?” “Two o’clock guests arrive. Two-thirty games. Three cake. Three-fifteen sugar riot. Three-twenty-one parents stop noticing material reality. That’s our window.” Molly nodded slowly. “Gift table location?” “According to my source, left of the bouncy castle, beneath a banner that says Happy Birthday Oliver in letters large enough to be seen from space.” “Your source being?” “My barber.” “Your barber cuts hair and leaks party intelligence?” “He’s the uncle.” “That’s almost respectable.” Bill leaned forward. “Now, disguises. I go in as a balloon man.” “No.” “A face painter?” “You can’t paint a wall.” “I’m versatile under pressure.” “You panic near glitter.” “Everyone panics near glitter. It reproduces.” Molly folded the map. “We enter as the entertainment agency. Clipboard, lanyards, confidence. We tell the parents there’s been a scheduling mix-up and we’re here to collect the ‘surprise mascot parcels.’” Bill blinked. “That’s brilliant.” “I know.” “And what are mascot parcels?” “Nothing. Which is why no one will want to admit they don’t know.” He pointed the knife at her approvingly. “Weaponized embarrassment. Elegant.” “Then we load the presents into the van and leave before anyone asks why the mascot parcels are wrapped in dinosaurs.” “We’ll need boxes.” “We’ll need smiles. Parents trust smiles and clipboards.” Bill practiced one. It looked like he’d just remembered where he buried someone. “Absolutely not,” Molly said. “That was my friendly one.” “Try less cemetery.” He softened it. “Better?” “Marginally less prosecutable.” A waitress passed, eyeing the knife. Bill slid it into his sleeve. “What about the children?” “We avoid direct engagement.” “What if one asks me to make a balloon sword?” “You say you’re from Health and Safety.” “Children fear bureaucracy. Smart.” Molly took out a notebook. “Possible complications: one, actual entertainers arriving.” “We out-entertain them.” “No. We redirect them to the rear entrance and tell them there’s a fire marshal inspection.” “Cruel.” “Effective. Two, suspicious parent.” “I cry?” “You do not cry.” “I can cry on command.” “You cry whenever a dog in a coat walks past.” “That’s joy, Molly. Different category.” She ignored him. “Three, the birthday child notices gifts vanishing.” Bill spread his hands. “Then we improvise. I distract him.” “With what?” He grinned. “I tell him I know where the magician keeps the rabbit.” Molly stared. “There isn’t a magician.” “There will be for thirty glorious seconds.” Outside, rain ticked at the window. Molly looked at the map, then at Bill, then at the bag containing three lanyards, two forged badges, and, for reasons she dreaded to explore, a kazoo. “Why do you have a kazoo?” she asked. “In case stealth fails and chaos becomes our transport.” She laughed despite herself. “Fine. We go in at three-fifteen. Smart clothes. Clipboards. No cape.” Bill clutched his chest. “You strip me of my art.” “I preserve us from arrest.” He lifted his teacup. “To Oliver.” “To Oliver,” Molly said, raising hers. “May he receive emotional growth instead of material excess.” “And may his aunt have terrible taste in wrapping paper,” Molly said. Bill smiled, almost normal now. “You know, if this goes well, we could specialize.” “In children’s parties?” “In under-guarded joy.”