Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9PSKQ17FD32FN5ZEA12T1G

Molly crouched behind the community hall’s recycling bins, wearing a caterer’s jacket and the expression of a woman offended by balloons. Inside, a clown folded a giraffe from latex and menace while children shrieked around a pirate-ship cake. Beside the trestle table, a glittering heap of presents waited under a banner reading HAPPY SIXTH, OLIVER, like buried treasure with ribbon. Bill knelt beside her with a floor plan drawn on the back of a pizza leaflet. It featured exits, timings, and a suspiciously muscular pony. “Three minutes in, two sacks out, and no clown contact,” Molly whispered. “If anyone asks, I’m Uncle Bill, allergic to joy,” he murmured. She peered through the service door. Parents were distracted by a magician, the punch bowl, and the terror of spilled squash. Bill produced grappling hooks from a nappy bag, frowned, and replaced them with party hats. Subtlety, tonight, wore elastic under the chin. At the cake table, a woman lit candles while another arranged pass-the-parcel like a military exercise. Molly grinned, for once, despite herself. This was not theft, she told herself. It was festive redistribution. Bill straightened his clip-on bow tie, and together they waddled toward destiny, smiling like nervous uncles.