Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09B4BX1X4RSYFMFFWD5HZB

Molly flattened herself against the alley wall beside the bakery, peering around the corner at the bright house across the street. Paper streamers in every color of the rainbow drooped from the porch railings, and a cardboard sign above the door announced, in letters that looked hand-cut by a jubilant amateur, Happy Birthday, Finley! The smell of cake drifted out every time the front door opened. It was, Bill thought grimly, the most offensive smell in the world. “Tell me again why this is a bad idea,” Bill muttered, tugging at the collar of his stolen delivery jacket. Molly adjusted her gloves with the serene expression of a woman planning a felony and a picnic at the same time. “Because we are about to steal presents from children,” she said. “And because the host hired a clown.” Bill squinted. “I saw the clown.” “And?” “Too happy.” “Exactly.” A burst of squealing laughter erupted from the backyard, followed by the shrill blast of a party whistle. Bill flinched. “There are at least twenty kids in there. Maybe more. How many presents can one birthday produce?” “Enough,” Molly said. “Parents get ambitious when it comes to five-year-olds. They buy the expensive stuff. Building sets. Noise-making electronics. Giant stuffed animals with eyes that stare into your soul.” Bill nodded, considering. “The soul-staring ones do fetch a premium.” Molly smiled. “We’re not fencing souls today. Just toys.” The front door opened again, and a man in suspenders stepped out balancing a tray of lemonade, his face red with effort and goodwill. Behind him, through the gap, Bill caught a glimpse of the living room: a mountain of wrapped gifts clustered beside a balloon arch, glittering like treasure under a chandelier made of paper stars. Bill’s mouth went dry. “That’s a lot of loot.” “That’s why we’re here.” He looked at her. “You really think this works?” Molly tapped the side of her nose. “You said yourself no one suspects a catering crew.” “I said no one suspects a catering crew if they are actually a catering crew.” “We’re enthusiastic freelancers,” Molly said. “Now remember the plan.” Bill inhaled and recited, “You walk in with the tray. I follow with the ‘cake support crate.’ We get to the hallway. We swap the presents for the empty boxes in the crate. We leave before anyone notices.” “Beautiful,” Molly said. “And if someone asks?” “I am from the bakery.” “And if they ask why you’re carrying an empty crate labeled PUDDING SUPPLIES?” Bill straightened. “We are committed to dessert logistics.” Molly clapped once. “Now you’re thinking like a criminal.” He gave the house another nervous look. “What if the clown follows us?” “Then distract him.” “With what?” Molly patted her coat pocket. “Miniature rubber ducks.” Bill stared. “You carry those?” “Always.” From inside the house came the delighted cry of a child, then a chorus of singing. Molly took the lemonade tray from Bill and shifted into character so smoothly it was almost admirable. Her shoulders loosened, her smile widened, and she looked, to Bill’s irritated amazement, exactly like someone who belonged at a joyful event and had never once in her life considered a jail cell. “Ready?” she asked. “No,” Bill said. “But I’m coming anyway.” “That’s the spirit.” They crossed the street at a brisk, innocent pace. The porch light glowed over the stacked shoes by the door, a chaotic pile of tiny sneakers and one glittery rain boot. Molly stepped around them and rang the bell. From within, the clown’s voice shouted, “Pizza?” Molly exchanged a glance with Bill, and for one dangerous second both thieves smiled the exact same smile: hungry, hopeful, and utterly unscrupulous. Then the door swung open, the music surged louder, and they slipped into the party like professionals entering a bank, if banks served frosting and trust.