Run: 2026-03-09-01KKACB1TS4GX0CT6AV0T59N56

Molly spread a crayon-smeared invitation across the café table as if it were a military map, though the glitter glue made strategy feel less dignified than it deserved. At the top, in heroic bubble letters, someone named Poppy announced she was turning six and would be celebrating at Bumblebee Castle Soft Play from two until five, with cake at three and “a magician if Trevor remembers.” Bill leaned over it, squinting. “There’s a cartoon giraffe wearing a party hat. I already feel outclassed.” “Focus,” Molly said, tapping the paper. “Where there are twenty children, there are twenty gifts. Minimum. Plush toys, boxed gadgets, things requiring batteries the size of soup tins. Parents bring them in cheerful little bags, pile them on a table, and then spend three hours pretending juice stains are temporary.” Bill sat back, impressed despite himself. “You really have thought this through.” “I was raised by three brothers. I can identify weak points in any celebration.” The waitress arrived with two teas and looked at the invitation. “Aw. A birthday party?” “In a way,” said Molly. When the waitress had gone, Bill lowered his voice. “I’m just saying, there are easier jobs. Rich people have paintings. Jewelers have diamonds. Why are we targeting a room full of paper crowns and sausage rolls?” “Because rich people hire security,” said Molly. “Children hire magicians named Trevor.” Bill considered this. “Fair.” Outside, rain slicked the pavement and turned the street into a watercolor. Inside, Molly began arranging sugar packets into formations. “Observe. Entrance here. Shoe racks here. Gift table somewhere near the sad fern. Chaos radius enormous.” Bill nodded solemnly. “And the children themselves?” “Sticky. Distractible. Prone to shouting truths at inconvenient volumes. We avoid direct engagement.” “I’m good with children,” Bill said. “You once made your niece cry by telling her clowns were freelance.” “She asked what they did for money.” Molly sighed and moved a sugar packet. “Our advantage is camouflage. No one notices adults at a children’s party. Half the parents look like they arrived accidentally and are waiting for rescue.” Bill brightened. “Disguise?” “Exactly. We go in as entertainment support.” “For Trevor the magician?” She gave him a look. “Can you tie a balloon animal?” “I can tie a balloon into what might legally be called a tube.” “Then not balloons.” Bill drummed his fingers on the table. “Face painters?” “You paint like a man trying to repair a fence.” He brightened again. “Caterers?” “Now that,” Molly said, “has legs.” “Not literally, I hope.” “Bill.” “Sorry.” She leaned in. “Black trousers. White shirts. Purposeful expressions. We carry trays in, we stack presents onto a service trolley, and if anyone asks questions, we say, ‘Running these through to the back.’ No one challenges a person carrying a tray. Civilisation rests on that principle.” Bill let out a low whistle. “Molly, that is devious.” “Thank you.” “Tiny concern.” “What?” “What if the children notice their presents are gone?” Molly looked at him patiently. “Bill, these are six-year-olds in a soft play castle. If an elephant drove through on a skateboard, they’d applaud and ask for cake.” He smiled despite himself. “And the getaway?” She pointed toward the window, where a bakery van idled at the curb. “We borrow something anonymous, load up, and leave before Trevor remembers he’s a magician.” Bill raised his teacup. “To Poppy.” Molly clinked his cup with hers. “To poor inventory control.” A silence fell between them, thoughtful and almost respectful, as they both imagined mountains of ribboned loot. Then Bill frowned at the invitation again. “One more thing,” he said. “What if Poppy is one of those children who opens the presents immediately and makes everyone watch?” Molly stared at the bubble letters, recalculating. From somewhere behind them, a child in the café shrieked with joy at a muffin. Molly folded the invitation and stood. “Then,” she said, “we get there before cake.”