Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9Q0JJ2NKGA9NQHKXET0KDN

Molly spread the crumpled neighborhood map across the ironing board, because neither of them owned a proper table and, in Bill’s case, barely qualified as a proper adult. The ironing board wobbled under the weight of three pencils, a half-eaten custard slice, and Bill’s elbow. Outside, rain freckled the windows. Inside, the flat smelled of wet coats and criminal overconfidence. “The target,” Molly said, tapping the map with a red-painted nail, “is number fourteen, Sycamore Close. Detached house. Bouncy castle in the garden. Clown due at two. Cake at three. Gift mountain accumulating from noon.” Bill peered at the map as if hoping it might become easier if he squinted. “I don’t like the phrase gift mountain. It makes me feel judged by geography.” “You’re not being judged by geography,” Molly said. “You’re being judged by me. Keep up.” Bill took a solemn bite of custard slice, nodding like a man receiving military orders in a bakery. He was tall, narrow, and permanently surprised by the existence of furniture. Molly, compact and efficient, had the expression of someone who could open a safe with a hairpin and then complain about the dust inside. On the wall behind them hung their previous plans: the Museum Umbrella Job, the Slightly Misunderstood Dog Show Affair, and the regrettable attempt to rob a wedding that turned out to be a funeral. Bill cleared his throat. “So we’re stealing presents from children.” “We’re stealing presents from a party,” Molly corrected. “Presents are merely items in transition.” “That sounds worse somehow.” She ignored him and drew arrows with brisk little stabs. The front gate led to a gravel drive; the side path ran beside the kitchen window; the conservatory opened onto the garden where sugar-drunk minors would be hurling themselves at inflatable architecture. “The beauty of it,” Molly said, “is chaos. Parents distracted. Music blaring. One magician making balloon poodles and emotional promises he can’t keep.” Bill brightened. “Could we disguise ourselves as entertainers?” Molly looked up slowly. “Bill, the last time you made a balloon animal, it resembled a tax audit.” “It was a snake.” “It had corners.” Bill set down the custard slice with offended care. “Fine. What’s the plan then?” Molly smiled the smile that had once convinced a jeweler to gift-wrap his own watch for her. “Catering staff. Black trousers, white shirts, trays in hand. No one questions a person carrying sausage rolls.” Bill considered this with reverence. “That is the wisest thing ever said in this flat.” “That is an exceptionally low bar.” She paced as she spoke, warming to the scheme. They would arrive at one-thirty, just as the first wave of sticky-faced guests swarmed the hall. Bill would wheel in a borrowed drinks trolley. Molly would head straight for the present table, located, according to neighborhood intelligence, in the dining room beneath a banner reading HENRY TURNS SIX! in letters large enough to be seen from orbit. “Then what?” Bill asked. “We can’t simply stuff twenty brightly wrapped boxes under our shirts. I already look suspiciously festive.” “We swap them,” Molly said. “Decoys in, real gifts out.” From a cupboard she produced a stack of parcels wrapped in cheerful paper. Bill blinked. “What’s in those?” “Bricks. Tins. One old toaster.” Bill stared at her with something bordering on professional admiration. “You wrapped a toaster in dinosaur paper.” “I am committed to presentation.” Rain rattled harder against the panes. Somewhere downstairs, a baby began crying with the operatic confidence of future tenancy disputes. Bill leaned over the map again. “And if someone stops us?” Molly picked up a party hat from the windowsill and placed it on his head like a judge delivering sentence. “You smile, say, ‘Special delivery for the birthday boy,’ and keep moving.” He adjusted the hat. “I do have an honest face.” “You have a face that looks like it apologizes to chairs after bumping into them. It’ll do.” For a moment they stood in silence, imagining it: the streamers, the shrieking, the mountain of glossy temptation waiting in the dining room. Bill exhaled. “You know, there’s something morally slippery about robbing a six-year-old.” Molly folded the map with crisp finality. “Bill, if morality wanted a vote, it should have paid rent.” Then she handed him a silver tray and the pair of them went to practice looking respectable, which, in Bill’s case, was the boldest crime of all.