Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08Q2ZWBGAW3GZGV54R3K8K

Molly flattened herself behind the hedges across from the yellow house, where a papier-mâché unicorn had been staked into the lawn like a proud, confused monument. Inside, children shrieked with the ferocity of tiny opera singers. Balloons bobbed against the windows. A banner read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NORA! in letters so cheerful they felt like an accusation. Bill crouched beside her, clutching a sketch of the floor plan that was mostly just a napkin with arrows on it. “Tell me again,” Molly said, “why we are doing this instead of literally any other crime.” Bill adjusted his black gloves, which were clearly gardening gloves he had painted with shoe polish. “Because the valuables are all in one place, the security is emotionally unprepared, and the target is soft.” “‘Soft’ is not usually a selling point in burglary.” “It is when the marks are six years old and trust adults with cupcakes.” A burst of singing rose from inside, followed by a crash and a chorus of delighted laughter. Molly winced. “That sounds like either a party or a hostage situation.” Bill peeked through the hedge. “There. See the table by the back wall? Mountains of wrapped presents. Bikes, dolls, a suspiciously expensive robot dog—” “Would a robot dog even count as loot if it bites you for touching it?” “It counts if we can sell it.” Molly stared at him. “You once tried to fence a singing fish and got chased by a man in a bathrobe.” “That was a misunderstanding.” “That fish knew your name.” Bill folded the napkin-plan in half, then in half again, then somehow unfolded it wrong. “We go in through the side gate during the piñata segment. Everyone will be distracted.” “The children are always distracted.” “No, I mean doubly distracted. Hitting something with a stick is an event. It’s a distraction with percussion.” Molly frowned. “You really think you can just walk into a child’s birthday party and leave with a sack full of presents?” Bill gave her a look of serene confidence that had never been earned. “Molly, people underestimate two things: the chaos of children and the authority of anyone carrying a clipboard.” “You don’t have a clipboard.” “I have this casserole dish lid.” “That is not a clipboard.” “It is if I believe in myself.” She snorted, then looked back at the house. A little boy in a cape tore across the living room, pursued by an adult in a paper crown. “What’s the exit?” “Front door. We blend in with the parents, each carrying one gift bag and one air of helpless concern. Then we split at the curb.” Molly squinted at him. “You say ‘blend in’ like you’ve ever blended in anywhere in your life.” “I wore beige last Tuesday.” “You were arrested in beige.” “Exactly. It was a bold choice.” A new sound drifted from inside: the high, gleeful rip of paper. Molly’s eyes narrowed. “They’re opening gifts already.” “Then we’re late.” “We’re thieves, Bill. We’re always late. It’s part of our brand.” He straightened, rolling his shoulders like a man preparing for battle, or at least a particularly humiliating errand. “Ready?” Molly pulled a pair of oversized sunglasses from her pocket and put them on despite the twilight. “No.” “Excellent.” “That’s not what ready means.” “No,” he said, grinning, “it means we’re professionals.” From inside, a child shouted, “Who wants cake on their nose?” Molly took a breath, then looked at the front door, the balloons, the pile of gifts waiting beyond the window. “If this goes badly, I want it noted that I hated this plan from the beginning.” Bill nodded solemnly. “If this goes badly, I want it noted that it was your idea to bring the clown wig.” “My disguise is strategic.” “It’s a clown wig.” “It’s a cunning clown wig.” He held out his hand. “Partners?” Molly slapped it once. “Partners.” Together, they stepped from the hedge and marched toward the house like two deeply determined adults who had no business being trusted with anything, least of all a birthday party.