Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07H0FWWHSTJYC6NNBDC6WN

Molly spread the crumpled invitation across the dashboard of the van, where it lay beside a chipped thermos and a half-eaten packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps. The paper was decorated with smiling balloons and a cartoon dinosaur wearing a party hat, as if the whole thing had been designed by someone who had never met the concept of shame. “Room for a cake this size?” Bill asked, peering over her shoulder. “It says the cake is a pirate ship,” Molly replied. “Which feels insulting to both pirates and ships.” Bill squinted through the windshield at the house at the end of the lane. Paper lanterns bobbed on the fence. A banner above the front door read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CAPTAIN JAKE! in letters so large they looked legally binding. “And the presents?” Bill asked. “Front room,” Molly said. “Under supervision.” Bill turned, scandalized. “Under supervision?” “By adults,” Molly said. “Worse. One of them is probably a dentist.” He groaned. “I hate dentists.” “You hate everybody.” “I’m selective.” Molly folded the invitation and tucked it into her jacket. “We’re not here to argue. We’re here to acquire.” Bill adjusted his black gloves, which were not especially stealthy because they had tiny yellow ducks on the fingers. “Steal is such an ugly word.” “Fine. Liberate.” “That’s better.” She looked at him sideways. “You are aware these are presents for children?” “Of course,” he said. “Which is why there are so many of them. Children are always being gifted things in bulk. It’s a structural weakness.” Molly laughed despite herself. Through the kitchen window they could see streamers, a jumble of balloons, and a woman wearing an apron that said PARTY IN PROGRESS, PLEASE DO NOT JUDGE. Somewhere inside, a child shrieked with joy in the manner of someone being handed either a puppy or a small meteor. Bill pulled a tiny earpiece from his pocket and held it up. “You brought the walkie?” “Of course I brought the walkie.” “Good. In and out in seven minutes.” “Seven? Why seven?” “It’s a lucky number.” “That’s not a strategy.” “It’s a philosophy.” Molly opened the van door and stepped into the cool afternoon air. “We go in as entertainers,” she said. “The clown kit is in the back.” Bill frowned. “I told you, I’m not wearing the wig.” “You wore it to the bank job.” “That was a hostage situation.” “It was a queue.” He leaned into the van and produced a long balloon pump with the solemnity of a man retrieving a weapon. “I can do balloons.” “Can you make a sword?” “I can make a shape that resembles regret.” “That’ll do.” The front gate was stuck, so Bill gave it a small, encouraging kick and it sprang open with a squeal that sent a flock of pigeons lifting from the roof. Both thieves froze. “Natural sound,” Molly whispered. “Very natural,” Bill whispered back. They crossed the yard, past a plastic lawn flamingo wearing a party hat. Bill paused beside it and saluted. “Your watch begins now, comrade.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re impossible.” “And yet,” he said, straightening his jacket, “still employed.” The doorbell chimed as they reached the porch. Through the frosted glass, they could see tiny shapes moving excitedly in the hallway. Molly smiled, not warmly but with professional appreciation. “Ready?” Bill took a breath. “For a room full of sugar-fueled minors and overconfident adults?” “Yes.” “Absolutely not.” She rang the bell. Somewhere inside, a chorus of footsteps thundered toward the door, and Bill lifted his balloon pump like a baton. Molly grinned. “Remember: we’re party entertainment.” Bill nodded. “And the presents?” “We make them disappear.” The door swung open, spilling out music, laughter, and the rich, dangerous smell of icing. Molly and Bill stepped inside with matching smiles, the sort that suggested they were either clowns or criminals. Sometimes, she thought, it was hard to tell the difference.