Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QK0F7Q4FFWJHZ64VDGJ5T

Molly spread a hand-drawn map across the dashboard of Bill’s van, flattening it with a juice box she’d stolen for research. Beyond the windscreen, Number 14 Beech Parade blazed with fairy lights, balloons, and the shrill confidence of six-year-olds fortified by icing. A plastic pirate ship bobbed on the lawn. Somewhere inside, a magician was losing control of a rabbit. “Tell me again,” Bill said, adjusting the clip-on bow tie he wore for criminal morale, “why we’re robbing a birthday party instead of, say, a bank?” “Because banks have alarms, cameras, and adults,” Molly said. “This has parents distracted by party games and a mountain of boxed treasure labeled in marker.” “Treasure. Mostly educational plastic.” “Resellable educational plastic.” He peered at the map. “You’ve marked the bouncy castle as high risk.” “It breathes children in and spits them out sticky. No professional crosses that perimeter without goggles.” From the house came a chorus of tiny voices screaming the same note. Bill flinched. “What if they see us?” “They won’t.” Molly opened a duffel bag. “Inside: two clown noses, one emergency wrapping-paper tube, and disguises.” Bill stared. “We’re going in as clowns?” “As face painters. Clowns are trusted by no one.” “That’s the sanest thing you’ve ever said.” Molly slipped on a floral smock and a badge that read SPARKLE SUE. Bill’s badge read GLITTER DAVE, which offended him on principle. “I look like a divorced craft teacher,” he said. “Perfect. That says safe with snacks. Front gate, smile at parents, mention venmo. Kitchen on the left, presents table in the dining room, extraction through the side hedge.” “With all the presents?” “We stack them in pillowcases. Pillowcases are festive and quiet.” Bill wiped a smear of blue greasepaint from his cheek. “Suppose a child asks for a butterfly.” “Paint a butterfly.” “What if they ask for Batman?” “Paint a legally distinct night mammal.” “And if they ask who hired us?” “Say your mother, then look busy.” They crossed the street with the brisk shame of people pretending to belong. At the gate, a woman in a paper crown glanced up from wrestling napkins. “Oh thank goodness,” she said. “You’re late.” Molly gave her a weary professional nod. “Traffic. A parade of geese.” “Union geese,” Bill added. The woman accepted this without blinking and waved them inside. The house was chaos upholstered in streamers. Children sprinted through rooms like released confetti. On the dining table sat the loot: a teetering pile of presents in dinosaur paper, princess paper, and one suspiciously adult bag from a wine shop. “Would you look at that,” Bill breathed. “Eyes bright, hands faster,” Molly murmured. A small boy appeared at Bill’s elbow. “Can you paint me as a volcano?” Bill froze. “Emotionally or geographically?” “Geographically.” Molly shoved a brush into his hand. “He’s marvelous with magma.” While Bill painted a lopsided eruption across the child’s forehead, Molly drifted to the presents table, smiling at parents, complimenting cupcakes, testing the weight of parcels like a jeweler appraising sapphires. “Phase Two,” she whispered on returning. “Big blue bag, corner chair. That’s our drop point.” Bill, now ringed by children demanding sharks, robots, and one sad rainbow, muttered, “I’m compromised.” “You’re thriving.” “I have glitter in my ears.” “That means they trust you.” A girl squinted at Molly. “Why are your eyebrows angry?” “Because,” Molly said, painting a flower on the girl’s hand, “art is difficult.” In the kitchen, a timer dinged. Parents surged toward the cake like pilgrims. Molly snapped her fingers. “Now.” Bill abandoned the sad rainbow and swooped to the dining room. Together they shoveled presents into pillowcases with breathtaking speed. “One from Nana,” Bill said. “Nana will survive.” “One says To Oliver, love Grandad.” “Grandad raised Oliver to be resilient.” Footsteps thundered in the hall. They froze. A little girl in a tiara stared at the bulging sacks. “Are those for the game?” Molly bent down solemnly. “Yes. Treasure relocation.” The girl considered this. “Can I help?” Bill handed her a small parcel. “You’re assistant manager.” She beamed and stuffed it into the sack just as the lights went out and thirty children screamed, “SURPRISE CAKE!” In the darkness, Molly grinned. “Best security system in the world.” Bill hoisted the pillowcases. “Children?” “Chaos,” she said. “Now move.”