Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QRQH6C8JP51387R9CV909

Rain ticked on the windscreen of Bill’s van like impatient fingernails, while across the street the community hall blazed with bunting, balloons, and the sort of cheerful music that made villainy feel underdressed. Molly sat in the passenger seat with a notebook on her knee, wearing black gloves and a party hat she claimed was camouflage. Bill had brought binoculars, a thermos, and a moral flexibility that drooped badly under bright decorations. “Right,” said Molly, peering through the steamed glass, “we go in, we identify the gift table, we remove the loot, and we vanish before anyone notices.” “Into a children’s party,” Bill said. “I feel I should say out loud that this is a new personal low.” “You said that at the church raffle.” “The church raffle had casseroles. This has cartoon plates and a cake shaped like a dinosaur. There are standards.” Molly flipped a page. “Criminal standards are like hotel shampoo: tiny and disappointing. Focus.” Bill adjusted the binoculars. “I count seventeen children, six adults, one clown, and an elderly woman who looks like she could dismantle me with a look.” “That’ll be Grandma,” said Molly. “Every operation has a wildcard. Ours appears to knit.” “She’s watching the door like a prison guard.” “She’s eighty.” “She’s an armed eighty in spirit.” Molly pointed at the hall. “Gift table’s by the stage. Bright wrapping paper, ribbons, one giant teddy bear. That bear is worth money.” “That bear has a bow tie,” Bill said. “I can’t fence a toy more formally dressed than I am.” “You can if you believe in yourself.” “I don’t, actually.” A burst of shrieking laughter spilled from the hall as a child in a paper crown bounced past the window. Bill sank lower in his seat. “What’s the cover?” he asked. “We’re entertainers.” Bill turned to stare at her. “Molly, I am many things. Nimble, persuasive, surprisingly good with padlocks. I am not an entertainer.” “You did three months in amateur dramatics.” “I was a tree.” “And critics called you wooden,” Molly said. “That’s stage experience.” She opened a holdall and produced two outfits: a magician’s cape with sequins shedding like dandruff, and a foam dragon costume with one eye larger than the other. Bill recoiled. “Why do you own those?” “Professional versatility.” “Crime has too many uniforms.” Molly tossed him the dragon head. “You distract the room. I sweep the presents.” “I’m not wearing that. I look like a lizard who owes money.” “Perfect. Children love chaos.” “They love order too. Bedtime stories. Juice boxes. Not whatever this is.” Molly leaned back, considering the lit windows, the bobbing balloons, the cutout sign that read HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY, OSCAR! in violent yellow paint. Her expression softened for half a second. “You know,” she said, “when I was six, my birthday cake collapsed.” Bill lowered the binoculars. “Mine was stolen by a dog.” They sat with that. “Maybe,” Bill said carefully, “we don’t rob Oscar.” Molly frowned at her notebook as if betrayed by her own handwriting. “Counterproposal?” “We go in,” Bill said, “pretend to be entertainers, fail harmlessly, eat one sausage roll each, and leave the presents where they are.” “One each?” “Two if the clown annoys me.” Molly looked at the holdall again, then at the hall. “Do we at least take the teddy bear?” “No.” “The one nearest the end? The little one with the pirate hat?” “No.” She sighed. “Fine. But if anyone asks, we’re professionals.” Bill pulled on the dragon head. “If anyone asks, we got lost on the way to a very sad theatre.” Molly tied on the magician’s cape, glitter already attaching itself to the upholstery like evidence. “Bill,” she said, hand on the van door, “if that grandmother rushes us, play dead.” “In this costume,” he said, “that won’t be acting.” Together they crossed the street toward the music, the balloons, and the felony they were, with some irritation, no longer committed to.