Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC5XZM7RMM53B0TG6PFMMD

Molly spread a crayon-scribbled invitation across the café table like a battlefield map. On it, a smiling dinosaur wore a party hat and promised cake, games, and “surprise bags for all.” Bill stared at the cartoon reptile with the grave respect of a general considering an enemy fortress. “Children’s parties,” Molly said, tapping the page, “are the soft underbelly of civilization.” Bill adjusted his scarf. “I preferred banks. Banks don’t have jelly on the walls.” “Banks have cameras. Eight-year-olds have attention spans measured in biscuit crumbs.” “And mothers,” Bill said darkly. “Mothers can smell nonsense at thirty paces.” Molly grinned. “That is why we won’t be nonsense. We’ll be entertainment.” Bill blinked. “You want me to juggle.” “I want you to survive,” she said. “There’s a difference.” He looked again at the invitation. “Explain the target.” “Presents piled by the bay window. Twenty, maybe thirty boxes. Remote-control cars, dolls, chemistry sets, whatever children demand after seeing adverts between cartoons.” Bill frowned. “You know an awful lot about modern greed.” “I read newspapers. Also, my niece once threatened mutiny over a unicorn backpack.” “And our route?” “In through the side gate during the magician’s act. Out through the kitchen once the cake appears. Nobody notices theft during icing.” Bill leaned back. “I still say this is morally untidy.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You stole a bronze goose from a bishop.” “That goose was badly displayed.” She folded the invitation. Around them, spoons clinked and rain dithered at the window. Molly had planned stranger jobs—a racehorse hidden in a florist’s van, a diamond tucked inside a meat pie—but this one had a ridiculous purity. Presents arrived in bright paper, stacked openly, guarded only by optimism. Bill, however, was wearing his expression of impending doom, the one that made him look like a butler who had discovered ghosts in the pantry. “What’s untidy,” he continued, “is stealing from children. They’re small. It feels like cheating.” “We’re not stealing from children,” Molly said. “We’re stealing from affluent adults who have converted guilt into wrapping paper.” “That is the flimsiest philosophy I’ve heard all week.” “Thank you. I worked on it.” Bill sighed. “Suppose a child sees us.” “Then we improvise.” “I hate improvising.” “You’re British. You call it muddling through.” He rubbed his forehead. “What exactly is my role in this catastrophe?” “You arrive dressed as a pirate.” “No.” “With a balloon sword.” “Absolutely not.” “With confidence.” “That, at least, is theoretically available.” She slid a second sheet across the table: a sketch of the garden, complete with bouncy castle, punch bowl, and a square marked DOG? Bill studied it as if hoping the plan might improve from prolonged disapproval. It did not. Outside, two schoolchildren splashed through a puddle and shrieked with joy, the sort of shriek that suggested the future of the species would be both noisy and sticky. “And you?” Bill asked. “I’m face paint.” He stared. “You can paint faces?” “I can paint anything if it wiggles slowly.” “This will end with me chased by a Labrador.” “Only if you smell like sausages.” “I always smell faintly like sausages.” “Then stand downwind,” Molly said, standing. “Come on. We’ve got three hours to acquire eyepatches, glitter, and a believable attitude toward pass-the-parcel.” Bill rose with the solemnity of a man approaching the gallows. “If I am forced to sing Happy Birthday,” he said, “I’m taking extra presents.”