Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08WRT0BFP3SEJPS31Y65GW

Molly looked through the cracked blinds at the brightly colored house across the street. “That is a lot of balloons,” she said. Bill adjusted his hat, which had a single feather in it for reasons he had never fully explained. “Children’s party,” he said. “Apparently, the birthday boy is turning seven. Seven is a very gift-heavy age.” “Bill,” Molly said, “you say that like you’re reviewing livestock.” “I’m saying it like a professional,” he replied. “Presents. Unattended cake. Tiny guests who get distracted by juice. It’s a gold mine wrapped in cartoon paper.” Molly folded her arms. “You want to rob a room full of six-year-olds.” “A party is a party,” Bill said. “And gifts are gifts.” “The ethics are appalling.” “The ethics are negotiable.” Molly snorted. “You always say that right before a terrible idea gets worse.” Bill took out a folded scrap of paper covered in arrows and doodles. “I’ve done reconnaissance.” “You’ve stood on the corner eating a sausage roll.” “I prefer the term ‘low-profile surveillance.’” “Your mustard stain was visible from orbit.” Bill peered at the house again. “There’s a clown.” Molly stared. “That’s your first concern?” “It’s a valid concern. Clowns are unpredictable.” “Bill, the party is for children. Of course there’s a clown.” “Exactly,” he said. “And if I’ve learned anything in this business, it’s that one should never trust anyone wearing oversize shoes.” Molly leaned closer to the window. “I can’t believe you’re serious.” “I am always serious when there’s wrapping paper involved.” “That’s not a sentence a sane person says.” Bill tapped the window frame. “Imagine the haul. Toy trucks. Puzzle boxes. Something called a ‘Learning Tablet for Toddlers,’ which sounds expensive and mildly judgmental.” “Please stop saying ‘haul’ about a seven-year-old’s birthday.” “Fine,” he said. “I’ll call it the spoils.” “Even worse.” He sighed, wounded. “You’re being unusually moral today.” “I’m being selectively moral. There’s a difference.” “What if we don’t steal from the children?” Bill asked. “What if we steal from the adults?” Molly considered that. “There are adults?” “Parents, probably. One looks rich.” “Bill.” “I’m joking.” “You are not joking,” she said. “You’re migrating.” He pointed at the cake in the window, which was decorated with dinosaurs wearing party hats. “Look at that. They’ve got a T. rex made of icing.” “Focus.” “I am focused. On dessert.” Molly put a hand on her hip. “We are not breaking into a child’s party.” Bill opened his mouth, then shut it. “All right.” She blinked. “That easy?” He glanced back at the house, where a chorus of squeals erupted. “I’ve just realized something.” “What?” “I don’t like being outnumbered by people with sticky fingers.” Molly exhaled. “Good. Then we’re done.” Bill tucked away his ridiculous map. “Still,” he said, “if one of those gift bags comes loose and happens to wander into the alley, I wouldn’t say no.” Molly gave him a look. “Bill.” “What?” “You are one suspiciously festive criminal.” He straightened his coat and smiled. “And you are one unexpectedly decent accomplice.” From inside the house came a cheer, then the unmistakable sound of paper ripping open. Bill winced. “That’s the sound of money being unwrapped.” “That’s the sound of children having a birthday.” He nodded toward the balloons. “Same difference, if you’re a terrible person.” Molly hooked her arm through his. “Come on. We’re going somewhere else.” “Where?” She started walking. “Anywhere without clowns.” Bill hurried after her. “And if there’s cake?” “If there’s cake,” Molly said, “we steal a slice and call it a moral compromise.” He grinned. “Now that,” he said, “sounds like a proper heist.”