Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09DBCYBY6W2RBW6V1WAD62

Molly sat in the back booth of the pancake diner, stirring her tea with the seriousness of a diamond appraiser. Across from her, Bill had unfolded a crumpled flyer and was squinting at it as if it might confess. “Tell me again,” Molly said, “why we’re casing a children’s party.” Bill tapped the flyer. “Because the adults are distracted, the guards are soft, and the loot is small enough to carry under both arms without developing a hernia.” “‘Loot’ is a grim word for wrapped cardboard boxes shaped like race cars.” “Wrapped cardboard boxes are how civilization begins,” Bill said. “Also, one of those boxes is almost certainly a console. Rich kids love consoles.” Molly glanced over the rim of her cup. “You’re assuming there’s rich kids.” “There are always rich kids. Or at least children with ambitions beyond their station.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Birthday party at the Henderson house. Twelve noon. Bounce castle. Pony. Balloon arch. Three hired teenagers in matching shirts pretending to supervise.” “Pony?” Molly said. “That feels excessive.” “It’s a wealthy district. Excessive is the neighborhood’s love language.” Molly folded her arms. “And you’re certain the presents are unguarded?” Bill gave her a look of wounded pride. “Molly, I spent fifteen minutes watching from the alley. The gift table is right beside the cake. Nobody is guarding it because everyone is emotionally compromised by frosting.” She nodded slowly. “How many presents?” “At least twenty-seven visible, plus the mystery pile behind the table. One enormous one shaped like a bicycle. One suspiciously expensive one humming.” “Why would a present hum?” “Because it’s expensive. Expensive things hum. It’s science.” Molly sighed. “You are not a scientist.” “I’m a man with opinions.” She set the spoon down. “Let’s review. We walk in?” “Not walk in,” Bill said. “Arrive.” “As what?” “As if we belong there. Parents, cousins, vague community volunteers. You always look like you’ve just come from somewhere else terribly important. Put a clipboard in your hand and no one asks questions.” “Bill, I do not own a clipboard.” “You don’t need one. You need the confidence of a clipboard.” Molly smiled despite herself. “That’s the kind of advice that gets people arrested.” “We’re not getting arrested,” Bill said. “We are professionals. The children will be absorbed by games, the adults by cake, and the presents will be removed during the window of maximum distraction.” “You really planned this.” “I planned the essentials.” “And the exit?” Bill tapped the flyer again. “Back gate. The Hendersons’ dog is tiny and old. According to my notes, it barks at weather.” “Your notes?” “Meticulous notes.” Molly peered at the page. “You drew a pony with a crown.” “That’s the pony,” he said. “Possibly in charge.” She laughed into her cup, then collected herself. “Fine. We go in. We blend. We wait for the frosting crisis.” Bill grinned. “That’s my favorite kind of crisis.” “But if anyone asks,” Molly said, “we are not stealing birthday gifts.” “Of course not.” “We are preserving them.” Bill blinked. “Preserving?” Molly nodded gravely. “From the chaos of childhood.” He leaned back, delighted. “That’s beautiful.” “It’s terrible.” “It’s beautiful and terrible,” he said. “We’re artists.” She looked toward the window, where afternoon light spilled across the street and the world seemed briefly innocent. Then she reached for the napkin, scribbled a time, and tucked it into her pocket. “All right,” she said. “But if there’s a magician, I’m out.” Bill stood, buttoned his coat, and held out a hand with theatrical solemnity. “Deal,” he said. “And if there’s a clown, I’m robbing them too.”