Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08SVM2D9GVV8A73GFD8M56

Molly crouched behind the bakery dumpster, inspecting the glittery invitation she’d fished from a recycling bin with all the solemnity of an art thief studying a museum map. Bill peered over her shoulder. “Tell me again why we’re robbing a five-year-old.” “We’re not robbing a five-year-old,” Molly said. “We’re robbing a birthday party.” “That somehow sounds worse.” “It’s efficient,” she said. “A room full of presents, no alarm system worth mentioning, and everybody inside will be occupied singing to someone named Tilly or Poppy or possibly both.” Bill adjusted the tie he wore only for jobs that involved lying to civilians. “I still think the clown is the real risk.” “The clown is a balloon artist.” “Then why does he have greasepaint and a weaponized honk?” Molly folded the invitation and tucked it into her jacket. “Because this is where the valuables are, Bill. Every guest brings a gift, every gift is wrapped, and every adult is too tired to notice when a box disappears behind a cupcake table.” Bill looked across the street at the suburban house, where pastel streamers trembled in the wind and a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STELLA! drooped from the porch. “You told me the kid was named Tilly.” “I also told you we were flexible.” He sighed the sigh of a man who had once tried to steal a statue by dressing as a maintenance worker and been forced to replace a light bulb for forty-seven minutes. “Fine. What’s the plan?” Molly smiled with the serene confidence of someone who had already stolen the batteries from the universe. “You take the gift table. I’ll handle the kitchen. We meet at the side gate in ten minutes.” “Gift table? That’s your master strategy?” “They’re stacked alphabetically by giver. The parents will assume one of the other parents moved them.” Bill squinted. “That’s insane.” “And yet, ‘creative.’” They waited until the music swelled and a dozen children began shrieking in the key of catastrophe. Molly straightened her coat, produced a party hat from somewhere impossible, and nodded toward the house. Bill hesitated. “If anyone asks?” “We are relatives.” “Of who?” “Whichever child cries the loudest.” He laughed despite himself. “That’s vile.” “It’s also true.” They moved through the side yard like overqualified burglars in a toy commercial. The kitchen door stood ajar, and from inside came the smell of icing, sausage rolls, and panic. Molly slipped in first. A mother in a cardigan was wrestling a tray of mini quiches while shouting, “No, not the blue frosting, that’s for the mermaid cake!” Molly drifted past her with a paper plate in hand. “Excuse me,” she said lightly. “I’m with the… entertainment committee.” The mother, half-turned, waved her away. In the front room, Bill had already begun his work. “Wonderful presents,” he murmured to anyone who glanced his way, lifting boxes with the reverence of a museum curator. “Absolutely lovely. I’m just consolidating them for the photos.” Aunties nodded. Grandparents smiled. One small boy in a cape saluted him, then returned to stabbing jelly with a fork. Molly emerged carrying a sack now heavy with wrapped rectangles and suspiciously jingling items. She caught Bill’s eye from across the room. He mouthed, “How many?” She mouthed back, “All of them.” “Is that even possible?” She grinned. “Bill, we are professionals. Or at least ambitious enough to be mistaken for them.” The clown in the corner honked at no one in particular. Outside, a child began to cry because the cake had too many strawberries. Inside, the pile of gifts dwindled in discreet, elegant increments. By the time the birthday song started, Molly and Bill were already at the side gate, each carrying a sack full of loot and wearing expressions of profound civic innocence. Bill glanced back at the cheerful chaos. “Next time,” he said, “can we do a wedding?” Molly adjusted her load and pushed the gate open. “Only if the bride’s younger sister has a registry.”