Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QQTCE4HAQEQDE7AH1AHFP

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the café table, flattening one corner with a salt shaker and the other with a custard tart she had no intention of paying for. The map was mostly circles, arrows, and a sketch of a bouncy castle that looked distressingly like a furious sheep. “Right,” she said, tapping the page with a red fingernail. “This is the garden. This is the patio. This blob is the gift table.” Bill squinted. “That blob could also be Belgium.” “It’s a table, Bill.” “It’s a very geopolitical table.” Around them, teaspoons clinked and an espresso machine hissed like an accomplice with opinions. Molly leaned in, eyes bright with professional delight. “At two o’clock, the magician arrives. At two-fifteen, he produces a dove or a handkerchief or one of those depressed rabbits. At that exact moment, every child, parent, and sugar-crazed aunt turns toward him.” “And we turn toward Belgium,” Bill said. “The presents,” Molly corrected. “We lift the lot and vanish through the side gate.” Bill sat back, considering the plan with the grave seriousness of a man who had once tried to rob a jeweler disguised as a municipal flautist. “There are flaws.” “There are always flaws.” “For one thing, children are observant. They’ll notice two strangers carrying twelve birthday presents.” Molly smiled. “Not if we belong there.” Bill looked at her hat, which was black, feathered, and suggested either mourning or opera. “Do we currently belong at a children’s party?” “Not dressed like this, no. Which is why you are going as a balloon man.” Bill blinked. “A what?” “A balloon artist. Twist a sausage balloon into something that vaguely insults zoology, and they’ll adore you.” “I can barely tie my own tie.” “You won’t need to. Balloons are just confidence with latex.” Bill folded his arms. “And you?” “Face painter.” “With your artistic ability? The last time you drew a horse it looked like an argument.” “It doesn’t have to be good. It has to be free.” He frowned at the map again. Outside, rain pecked politely at the window. Molly took a bite of the tart, chewed, and continued. “The gift table will be under the gazebo, which is excellent. Gazebos encourage carelessness. People see a roof and assume civilization has occurred.” “That is surprisingly true.” “Parents will stack the presents by category: large boxes at the back, gift bags in front, suspiciously expensive envelopes hidden under a cardigan.” Bill’s eyebrows rose. “You think there’ll be envelopes?” “There’s always an aunt who fears joy and gives savings bonds.” Bill rubbed his chin. “How do we transport them?” Molly reached under the table and produced a folded pushchair. Bill stared. “Where in God’s name were you keeping that?” “Trade secret.” “That is not an answer.” “It’s a collapsible buggy. We load it, throw a blanket over the top, and stroll out as if we’re taking a nap to the getaway van.” “We don’t have a van.” “We have your sister’s hatchback.” “My sister can smell criminal intent on upholstery.” “Then we’ll put down towels.” Bill exhaled through his nose, halfway between admiration and complaint. “Suppose a child asks what happened to the presents.” Molly licked jam from her thumb. “You look sorrowful and say, ‘The birthday fairy has taken them for quality control.’” “That won’t work.” “It absolutely will. Children accept nonsense with astonishing grace.” “And the parents?” “Parents at a party are not people anymore. They’re exhausted logistics in cardigans.” Bill glanced again at the furious sheep-bouncy castle. Slowly, despite himself, he began to grin. “I hate how much I enjoy this.” “No, you don’t.” “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.” Molly folded the map with ceremonial neatness. “Good. Then finish your tea. At one-thirty we acquire balloons, face paints, and an expression of cheerful incompetence.” Bill lifted his cup in a toast. “To larceny with party hats.” Molly clinked her spoon against it. “To the big score.” At the next table, a little boy who had been listening over a mountain of cake looked up from his comic and said, with appalling clarity, “You’ll need glitter. Grown-ups trust glitter.” Molly and Bill turned. The boy shrugged. “Also, the side gate sticks.” Molly slid the untouched custard tart onto his plate. “You heard nothing.” He took a heroic bite. “I heard Belgium.”