Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QFZ0ZRQERWV7YBM2H2W7Y

Molly spread a hand-drawn map across the bonnet of Bill’s car, where it immediately tried to escape in the wind like a guilty pigeon. She pinned one corner with a thermos, another with a torch, and the remaining two with the kind of expression that had once made a locksmith apologize to her. The map was less a map than an accusation. It showed the church hall, the side gate, the cake table, the magician’s corner, and, in triumphant red pencil, the mountain of presents expected to accumulate beside a cardboard throne shaped like a dragon. Bill peered over her shoulder, chewing a wine gum with the gravity of a man considering naval warfare. He wore a flat cap, a brown raincoat, and the unhelpful air of someone who always looked as though he’d just been asked to move a wardrobe. “This is low,” he said. “Even for us.” Molly didn’t look up. “Low is counterfeit coupons. This is seasonal redistribution.” “It’s a children’s birthday party.” “Children don’t buy presents, Bill. Adults do. We are correcting an inefficiency in the market.” A string of bunting fluttered beyond the churchyard wall, bright as a row of bad decisions. Inside the hall, tiny voices rose in shrieks of sugar-rich joy. Somewhere a whistle blew, followed by the tragic honk of a clown’s bicycle horn. Bill adjusted his cap. “I’m not saying I object on moral grounds. I’m saying I object on practical ones. Children notice things. They’ve got the suspicious eyes of underfed detectives.” Molly finally looked at him. “Which is why we shan’t look suspicious.” Bill considered this while staring at his own reflection in the windscreen. “That would be a first.” She opened a canvas bag and produced their disguises: a balloon pump, a sash reading PARTY HELPER, a pink plastic tiara, and a waistcoat so violently cheerful it might have been banned by treaty. Bill recoiled. “I’m not wearing that.” “You are. You’re the entertainer.” “I’ve never entertained anybody in my life.” “You once made a policeman laugh so hard he forgot to arrest you.” “That was a medical event.” Molly put on the tiara with the solemnity of a field marshal receiving decoration. It sat over her dark curls at a tilt suggesting both festivity and mutiny. “I’ll be the event coordinator. You’ll drift about making balloon animals and collecting the gifts for ‘safekeeping.’” Bill held up the waistcoat between thumb and forefinger. “This pattern could cause nosebleeds.” “That’s part of the strategy.” He sighed and slipped it on. Against all odds, it made him look less like an entertainer and more like a bank manager cursed by a fairy. Molly approved. The truly invisible people, she believed, were the ones so ridiculous nobody thought they could be dangerous. From the hall came a roar of applause. Through the frosted windows they saw the shadow of a magician producing something large and feathery from somewhere morally ambiguous. Bill squinted at the side door. “What if there’s an actual party helper?” “Then you tell him you’re with the balloons.” “What balloons?” Molly handed him the pump. “Confidence, Bill, is the balloon.” “That’s not a sentence.” “It is today.” For a moment they stood listening to the muffled chaos within: children chanting, chairs scraping, one adult using the false bright voice of someone close to collapse. The smell of icing drifted out each time the kitchen door swung open. Bill’s stomach gave a small, traitorous growl. Molly folded the map and tucked it into her coat. “Remember: smile, nod, and never run unless everyone else is running first.” Bill looked at the church hall, then at the tiara, then at the bag awaiting its harvest. “If I get cornered by a six-year-old, I’m surrendering immediately.” She grinned and pushed open the gate. “If you get cornered by a six-year-old, make him a giraffe and retreat with dignity.” And together, dressed like two very different mistakes, they marched toward the sound of party games and unsecured loot.