Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC87GWR16BF2NPZBVPVG3A

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the café table, flattening it with both palms as if she were calming a hysterical goose. The map was on the back of a placemat advertising sundaes, and the house in question looked less like a suburban semi-detached and more like an injured octopus. Bill leaned over it with the grave expression of a man studying troop movements, though in reality he was peering through the steam of a teacup he had forgotten to stop stirring. “Right,” Molly said, tapping the conservatory with a chewed pencil. “The party starts at two. Peak sugar chaos at three-fifteen. We go in at three-twenty, when the adults are distracted by cake and the children are fighting over balloons.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Classic window.” “Not a literal window, Bill. We’re using the side gate.” He looked wounded. “I knew that. I was speaking strategically.” The waitress arrived with a plate of chips neither of them had ordered, squinted at the map, and left again with the face of someone deciding not to ask. Molly jabbed the pencil at a rectangle labeled PRESENT MOUNTAIN. “Look at this. Twenty-seven confirmed gifts, maybe more. Remote-control dinosaurs, dolls the size of clergymen, educational plastic nonsense. Half of it can be fenced by Tuesday.” Bill rubbed his chin. He had a chin made for rubbing, broad and optimistic, though optimism was seldom justified. “Any dogs?” “One dog. Elderly. Name: Pickles. Threat level: decorative.” “Children?” Molly looked up. “Bill, the place is full of children. That’s what makes it a party.” “Yes, but are they the organised kind? The sort with captains and whistles?” “Six-year-olds, not dockworkers.” Bill sat back, relieved. Around them, the café hummed with spoons and low conversation. Outside, rain polished the pavement to a gloomy shine. Molly preferred rain for planning; it made every crime feel less like wickedness and more like administration. “The key thing,” she said, lowering her voice, “is blending in. You’ll go as the magician.” Bill nearly inhaled a chip. “The magician?” “You’ve got the suit.” “It’s burgundy.” “Children love burgundy. It suggests mystery.” “It suggests an uncle in debt.” Molly ignored this. She slid a second sheet over the placemat. It was a timetable so precise it might have been prepared for an invasion or a wedding. “At three-ten, actual magician arrives. At three-twelve, you intercept him at the corner, send him to number forty-two instead of twenty-four, and borrow the hat.” Bill stared. “Borrow?” “Steal elegantly.” He considered it. “And you?” “I’m the balloon woman.” Bill blinked. “Can you make balloons?” “I can make one balloon into two smaller balloons by accident, which is more than enough. While everyone watches you pretend to pull coins from children’s ears, I clear the present table into black sacks marked PARTY WASTE. Out the gate, into the van, gone.” Bill whistled softly. “It’s monstrous.” “It’s efficient.” A little boy at the next table turned and regarded them with sticky suspicion. Molly smiled at him until he recoiled. Bill folded the timetable, unfolded it, then frowned. “What if the birthday child notices?” “They never notice anything. They’re wearing paper crowns and eating blue icing. It’s practically a medical condition.” “And if a parent stops me?” “Say ‘abracadabra’ and move briskly.” Bill’s confidence rose and fell like a frightened pigeon. “I still think the burgundy’s a risk.” Molly sat back, eyes shining with the joy of a difficult puzzle nearly solved. “Bill, tonight we are not burglars. We are seasonal joy redistribution specialists.” He grinned despite himself. “That’s the spirit.” “No,” Molly said, draining her tea and standing. “The spirit is in the van. I packed it beside the rope and the emergency cupcakes.”