Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9PYRSWW5Z4X20HGBYQP18D

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the café table, flattening the corners with two teaspoons and a sugar jar that looked, in Bill’s opinion, alarmingly like evidence. Outside, rain smeared the bakery window and turned the streetlamps into melted gold. Inside, the air smelled of burnt coffee and cinnamon buns, which Bill found distracting in a professional sense. “Children’s parties,” Molly said, tapping the paper with a red-painted nail, “are the last great unguarded vaults.” Bill squinted. “That sentence should be embroidered on a cushion.” “Focus. The party starts at two in the church hall. Clown at half past. Cake at three. Present-opening scheduled for three-fifteen, which gives us a narrow but glittering window.” “To do what, exactly? Stroll in and ask the birthday boy to hand over his loot in the spirit of fair redistribution?” “We infiltrate,” Molly said. “Blend. Adapt. Smile until it hurts.” Bill leaned back, scandalized. “Blend? Molly, I’m six foot three and look like a substitute history teacher wanted in three counties.” “You also own a navy blazer. In a children’s party, that makes you either an uncle or a divorce.” Bill considered this. “That’s hurtful. Accurate, but hurtful.” Molly slid over a list. “Dress code: harmless. No leather gloves, no lock picks visible, and for heaven’s sake no saying things like ‘egress route’ in front of civilians.” “I say ‘egress route’ naturally.” “That is precisely the problem.” She traced the layout. The church hall was a squat brick box with one main entrance, a kitchen door at the rear, and windows painted with cheerful rabbits that gave the building the unsettling air of a nursery trying to hide a tax scheme. The presents would be stacked on a table beside the cake, under a banner reading HENRY TURNS SIX!, as if Henry had engineered the event himself. Bill peered at the map. “And our obstacle?” “Parents,” Molly said. “A dangerous species. Sleep-deprived, under-caffeinated, and capable of detecting suspicious behavior while simultaneously cutting crusts off sandwiches.” “Terrifying. I’d rather rob a bank. Bank managers don’t make you explain why you’re near the juice boxes.” “Exactly why we need roles. I go in as entertainer support.” “What’s that when it’s at home?” “I carry balloons, nod at the clown, and look indispensable.” Bill pointed to himself. “And I’m what?” “Gift logistics.” “That sounds fake.” “All logistics are fake. That’s why they work.” Bill drummed his fingers on the table. “Suppose a child asks me a direct question. They do that, you know. They come at you with those huge honest eyes and ask why your shoes are weird.” “Then you say, ‘Excellent observation,’ and hand them a sticker.” “I hate children’s stickers. They peel with the fury of the damned.” Molly smiled thinly. “Try to think beyond your personal discomfort and toward the mountain of boxed treasure. Dolls, remote-control cars, suspiciously expensive educational toys. Probably one of those tiny electric scooters that make toddlers look like junior mob bosses.” Bill’s expression softened. “I do like a clean operation.” “This will be cleaner than a dentist’s conscience.” “Low bar.” “Bill.” “Fine. We enter separately. I mingle. You secure the presents. We exit through the kitchen?” “Through the kitchen,” she said. “There’ll be aluminum trays, industrial squash, and one volunteer named Sandra who thinks she’s in charge.” “How do you know about Sandra?” “There is always a Sandra.” Bill nodded slowly, as if this explained civilization. Rain ticked against the glass. Molly folded the map with ceremonial care and tucked it into her handbag beside a packet of candles and what looked suspiciously like a tiny grappling hook. “One more thing,” Bill said. “If the clown clocks us, I’m leaving.” Molly stood. “If the clown clocks us, Bill, we were never professionals.” He rose with a sigh and tossed coins onto the saucer. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but tomorrow I become a man who steals from a six-year-old.” Molly opened her umbrella. “No,” she said. “Tomorrow you become a man who steals from thirty distracted adults. The six-year-old is merely hosting.”