Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0994WR11QX6282YP9HZH1Z

Molly spread the party flyer across the hood of the getaway van and squinted at the glittery letters. “This is a crime scene in crayon,” she said. Bill adjusted his black gloves and leaned in. “It’s a children’s party. Everything is a crime scene in crayon.” The flyer showed balloons, streamers, a clown with a suspiciously cheerful grin, and, in a corner, the words PRESENT TABLE. Bill tapped that with a fingernail. “There. That’s the vault.” “If the vault contains glitter glue, I’m leaving,” Molly said. “Focus,” Bill whispered, though they were parked in an alley behind a bakery and no one was within twenty yards except a suspicious pigeon. “We go in at three, blend with the crowd, and walk out with the gifts.” Molly looked him up and down. He wore a fake mustache, a striped shirt, and shorts with little sharks on them. “Blend?” “I’m going as a party dad.” “You look like a party uncle who was asked to leave.” Bill shrugged. “Children trust flaws. It’s the perfection that scares them.” Molly checked the list she’d scribbled on a napkin. “We have disguises, bags, and a map of the house.” “That’s not a map,” Bill said. “It’s a napkin with arrows.” “It points to ‘cake’ six times.” “That’s because cake is everywhere.” From inside the house came a burst of shrieking laughter and a trumpet blast. Molly peered through the hedge. “How many kids are there?” Bill counted the helium balloons tied to the mailbox. “Enough to form a small government.” A parent in the yard was bending over a table, wrestling a piñata shaped like a unicorn. Another was setting out paper cups. “We need a distraction,” Molly said. “Something loud, harmless, and ideally something that makes adults stop paying attention.” Bill grinned. “I’ve got just the thing.” He reached into the van and produced a remote control covered in tape and a label reading DO NOT PRESS IF YOU HAVE A SOUL. Molly stared at it. “You’ve been carrying that around?” “For months,” Bill said. “It’s for emergencies.” “This is a children’s party.” “Exactly.” He pressed the button. Across the street, a delivery drone began blaring a tinny version of Happy Birthday while circling a lamppost and dropping leaflets for a plumbing company. Every head in the yard turned. Molly blinked. “That’s your emergency?” “It’s multi-purpose.” The adults rushed to admire the drone, which promptly snagged itself in a tree and began reciting coupon codes. Bill opened the van door. “Now!” They slipped through the side gate and into the garden, where a table groaned under the weight of wrapped presents in every color imaginable. One was shaped like a dinosaur. One was enormous and covered in stars. One had so much tape it looked medically sealed. Molly whispered, “We take the easy ones first.” Bill pointed at the dinosaur. “That one looks heavy.” “So?” “So I like a challenge.” They began loading bags with gifts, moving briskly, like professionals with a moral issue. From the kitchen window, a child in a paper crown shouted, “Who are those people?” Bill crouched beside a stack of boxes and called out in a nasal voice, “We’re the present inspectors!” Molly hissed, “There is no such thing.” “There is now.” A small boy frowned. “Why are you stealing birthday presents?” Molly froze. “We are not stealing. We are—” Bill smoothly cut in. “Relocating them. For safety.” The boy considered this with the grave suspicion only children can manage. Then he pointed to a box shaped like a robot. “That one’s for me. It has batteries.” “We’ll be very careful with it,” Molly said. At that moment, the clown from the flyer emerged from behind the cake table carrying a plate of frosting. He looked straight at their bulging bags. Bill whispered, “Plan B.” “There is no Plan B.” “There is now.” The clown smiled, wiped his mouth, and said, “You two are terrible at this.” Molly clutched a gift bag to her chest. “You’re not supposed to be talking.” “I’m the birthday uncle,” the clown said. “I know when people are stealing presents. It’s the same face adults make at family weddings.” Bill frowned. “Then why haven’t you shouted?” The clown looked toward the children, who were now distracted by the drone, the wrecked piñata, and a dog wearing streamers. “Because,” he said, “I hid the really good presents in the laundry room.” Molly and Bill stared at each other. Bill lowered his bag. “You’re kidding.” The clown shrugged. “I’m not a clown. I’m the father.” Molly exhaled slowly. “This party has become much more criminal than we planned.” Bill already had the laundry room key in his hand. “Agreed. Let’s steal them before somebody decent does.”