Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08X2WBRRJ2Q0SEAEJM3K96

Molly flattened the map of Little Sprouts Community Hall on the hood of the van, where the rain had already made the paper look like it had survived a very damp war. “Right,” she said, tapping the page with a nail painted the color of danger, “children’s party, three to five, puppet show at four, and at four-thirty every present in the room becomes legally defenseless.” Bill squinted at the map. “Legally defenseless is not a phrase I’ve heard before.” “It should be. It has a nice ring.” “It sounds like a slogan for a terrible law firm.” Molly ignored him and jabbed at the side entrance. “We go in here, through the kitchen. Staff will be too busy frosting cupcakes to notice two highly motivated adults with no shame and, more importantly, no folding table.” Bill glanced into the back of the van, where a stack of stolen folding tables leaned against a crate of novelty balloons. “I resent that you say ‘no folding table’ like it’s a character flaw.” “It is a character flaw.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’ll have you know I am the kind of man who once returned a library book three days early.” Molly stared. “Bill, that was a weather almanac.” “It was still library property.” She folded the map with vicious precision. “Focus. We’re after the presents, not the cake, not the clown, and absolutely not the clown’s emotional support ferret.” “His name is Pickles,” Bill said. “And he bites.” “Then we avoid the ferret.” Bill leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the parking lot itself might be listening. “What’s the angle? We can’t exactly walk in carrying crowbars and a sign that says, ‘Here to rob your toddlers.’” Molly gave him a look. “No, Bill. We go in as entertainment.” He blinked. “Entertainment.” “Yes.” “We are burglars, Molly. We are not entertainers.” “I can juggle.” “You can barely carry soup without negotiating.” “I said I can juggle, not well.” Bill rubbed his chin. “Okay. Suppose I accept this madness. What sort of entertainment?” Molly smiled in a way that suggested paperwork was about to become someone else’s problem. “Magic trick.” “You do not know magic.” “I know enough.” “That’s a low bar.” “I know how to make a lollipop disappear.” “That’s eating.” “And yet children adore me.” Bill looked through the rain at the hall, where colored streamers fluttered in the window like the building itself was trying to escape. “If we’re entertainers, how do we get to the presents?” “We offer a grand finale.” “Which is?” She reached into the van and pulled out a smoke machine the size of a microwave. “A brief, tasteful fog.” Bill stared. “That is not tasteful fog. That is suspicious weather.” “It’s theater.” “It’s arson’s gentler cousin.” “It only puffs a little. While everyone’s coughing and applauding, we roll the presents out in the pastry trolley.” He turned slowly to the pastry trolley, where she had already installed a false bottom and a handwritten sign that read CAKE ONLY, DEFINITELY NOT TREASURE. Bill sighed. “You labeled it.” “I like organization.” “You are stealing from children.” “Yes, Bill.” “You know that makes me feel weird about the label.” Molly gave him a brisk pat on the shoulder. “Think of it this way: we’re not ruining the party. We’re adding suspense.” “Children do not need suspense.” “Then they’ll remember us forever.” Bill looked back at the hall, then at the smoke machine, then at Molly, who was grinning with the serene confidence of a woman who had never once been discouraged by common sense. At last he sighed, straightened his collar, and took the trolley handle. “All right,” he said. “But if the clown’s ferret gets involved, I’m out.” Molly handed him a party hat she had stolen from somewhere on principle. “Fine. But if this goes well, Bill, we are legends.” He put on the hat and frowned. “If this goes well, Molly, we are monsters.” She lit the smoke machine with a tiny click. “That too.”