Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0877HNCAM16V1DW16NX3SF

Molly flattened herself behind the bakery van and peered at the brightly lit garden two doors down, where balloons bobbed above a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TILLY! in letters so cheerful they felt like a trap. Bill crouched beside her in a coat three sizes too large and said, “Tell me again why we’re stealing from a party where everyone is under ten and heavily supervised.” “Because,” Molly whispered, “every child in that house believes in miracles, and therefore none of them will question a suspiciously efficient Santa substitute carrying a sack.” Bill frowned. “It’s July.” “Exactly. No one expects seasonal logic in July.” From the garden came a squeal of delight as someone unveiled a pirate cake the size of a car tire. A dozen tiny faces gleamed with frosting and greed. Bill rubbed his hands together. “I do admire the ambition. Presents in one place. No alarms. No security except a woman in sandals and a man wearing a paper crown.” “The man in the crown is the father,” Molly said. “I checked. He also drinks prosecco out of a novelty mug, which suggests he will be useless after eight-thirty.” Bill peeked around the corner. “What’s the plan, then? Walk in, compliment the cake, and start taking gifts like we’ve been invited to a very poor office Christmas party?” Molly produced a clipboard from her tote bag. “We are not thieves. We are entertainment consultants.” Bill blinked at her. “You made a clipboard.” “I made credentials. Children trust laminated things.” “They do not.” “They do if you smile with confidence and carry an electrical tape mustache.” Bill looked at the tiny fake mustache stuck to the clipboard. “That’s not a mustache. That’s a label.” “It’s minimalist.” “Right. And the sack?” She hefted a large red sack from the ground. It jingled faintly. Bill stared. “Why does it jingle? Are there bells in there?” “Only as a decoy,” Molly said. “Inside are two rolled-up blankets, a thermos of tea, and a collapsible ladder.” “A ladder?” “In case the gifts are on a high table.” Bill sighed. “Molly, why would presents be on a high table?” “Because adults are idiots. Also because I’m planning for excellence.” At the sound of singing, they both ducked lower. The children had begun their anthem, off-key and fierce, while Tilly shrieked with the kind of joy that made the air itself feel sticky. Bill softened despite himself. “They do seem happy.” Molly crossed her arms. “Focus, Bill. Happiness is a vulnerability.” “That’s horrifying.” “It’s also how we’re getting in.” He took a long breath. “Fine. We enter as party magicians. You distract them with your fake clipboard and your mysterious authority. I perform the classic ‘guess your number’ routine.” “You can’t guess numbers.” “I can if they’re between one and five.” Molly nodded. “Good enough for children. Then while they’re distracted by the disappearance of their shoes, I collect the gifts.” Bill glanced at her. “You really are going to steal from them.” “Not steal,” she said. “Redistribute temporarily.” “To where?” Molly pointed toward the alley. “Our van. Then, by dawn, we are gone, and the presents are ours, at least until we can fence them.” Bill winced. “You always make crime sound like a customer service problem.” “That’s because customer service is mostly crime with better lighting.” A balloon burst somewhere in the garden, and a chorus of delighted screams rose up. Bill straightened his jacket. “All right. Let’s be professionals.” Molly slipped on her fake mustache and hefted the sack. “Remember: confidence, warmth, and no eye contact with the birthday child.” Bill nodded. “And if anyone asks?” Molly grinned. “We are here for the clown shortage.” Together they stepped from the shadows and into the glow of the party, where the presents waited in bright paper mountains, and every adult was too busy laughing to notice the two most suspicious entertainers in the street.