Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QENWB2XCDWQTA96JT7P2V

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the café table with the solemnity of a naval commander invading a small, sticky kingdom. The map was on the back of a placemat featuring cartoon pancakes in sailor hats, which gave the operation a regrettably festive air. Bill leaned over it, squinting through a pair of sunglasses he insisted made him look inconspicuous, though indoors they made him look like a minor celebrity hiding from tax investigators. “Right,” said Molly, tapping a crayon circle. “The party’s here. Community hall. Bunting, balloons, shrieking. Presents piled by the cake table.” Bill nodded. “I hate bunting. It always looks like a place where adults are lying to children.” “That is, in fairness, exactly what a children’s party is.” Outside, rain smeared the window and made the streetlights look as if they had recently cried. Inside, the café smelled of toast, burned coffee, and the dangerous confidence of people discussing crimes over tea. Molly had tied her hair back in a scarf with cherries on it, a choice that made her look less like a thief and more like someone who could produce emergency tissues. Bill wore a tan raincoat with so many pockets it suggested either espionage or a deep mistrust of handbags. “The key thing,” Molly said, “is blending in.” Bill sat back. “I can blend. I once spent three hours in a garden centre and no one asked me anything.” “That’s because you looked like a disappointed shrub.” He pointed at the map. “What about a disguise? Clown? Magician? Balloon fellow?” “Never clown. People remember clowns. Also children can smell fear, and clowns are mostly fear in large shoes.” Bill considered this gravely. “What can they smell on magicians?” “Velvet and divorce.” Molly sipped her tea and surveyed the battlefield of syrup bottles and sugar packets. Her mind, always neat in matters of chaos, had arranged the evening into stages. Arrival. Diversion. Extraction. Escape. Her conscience had attempted a brief complaint around breakfast, but she’d ignored it on the sensible grounds that conscience was rarely there when rent was due. The party, according to her source, was for a seven-year-old named Arthur, a child from a wealthy family who had somehow acquired both a magician and a chocolate fountain. Molly did not approve of chocolate fountains on moral grounds. Nobody needed a machine whose only purpose was to make strawberries look decadent. “We go in as entertainment staff,” she said. Bill brightened. “I could do entertainment.” “You cannot even clap in rhythm.” “I can hand out hats.” “Yes,” said Molly, “and if asked a question?” “I’d say something mysterious. People love that.” “They do not love it from a man carrying six gift bags.” He frowned. “You always crush my best qualities.” “Your best quality is that you can run while apologizing.” That, Bill felt, was unfairly accurate. At the next table, an elderly woman lowered her newspaper just enough to peer over it with the expression of someone deciding whether to intervene or simply enjoy the show. Molly lowered her voice. “We wait till the cake arrives. Every eye goes to the candles. In the fuss, we move the presents to the side door. No smashing, no masks, no dramatic exits.” Bill leaned in. “And if a child spots us?” Molly smiled, small and wicked. “Then we say we’re from the Present Safety Department.” Bill’s mouth opened in admiration. “That is despicable.” “It’s professional.” He drummed his fingers. “What if there’s a dog?” “There’s always a dog.” “I don’t negotiate with dogs.” “You don’t negotiate with anyone. You panic and offer them biscuits.” “Works on most people.” Molly folded the placemat map and slipped it into her bag. Around them, spoons clinked, the coffee machine sighed, and somewhere in the kitchen a plate met its tragic end. She stood, all brisk purpose. “Come on,” she said. “By eight o’clock we’ll either be richer by several excellent presents, or banned from another community hall.” Bill rose and buttoned his raincoat like a man preparing for weather, war, and possibly face paint. “Do you think,” he said as they headed for the door, “there’ll be party bags?” Molly gave him a look of profound professional disappointment. “Bill,” she said, “steal with dignity.”