Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09HBKE74SEV2490H4KQQ16

Molly spread a crumpled invitation across the diner table like it was a jewel map, though it had a picture of a cartoon dinosaur holding balloons. Bill peered at it over a cup of coffee so weak it seemed to be apologizing. “You’re telling me this is the job?” “This,” Molly said, tapping the paper, “is the opportunity of a lifetime.” “Birthday party for six-year-olds?” “Exactly.” Bill blinked. “That’s not the part that sounds like a lifetime.” Molly leaned back, folding her arms. “Think it through. Cakes. Streamers. Sugar-fueled chaos. Fifty unattended adults pretending to supervise while actually taking photos of each other holding paper hats. And every child in the room is too busy being astonished by a clown’s shoes to notice a couple of professionals.” Bill squinted. “Professionals.” “We have a system.” “Our system is usually just you saying ‘follow my lead’ and then me running.” “That’s because you panic at the slightest authority.” “I do not.” Molly gave him a look. Bill sighed. “Fine. I panic at the mediumest authority.” She grinned. “We go in during the present-opening. Everyone’s distracted. The room’s full of boxes, ribbons, gift bags, and opportunities.” “You are describing a massacre of wrapping paper.” “Focus, Bill.” “I’m trying, but I’m picturing myself surrounded by tiny humans chanting at me.” “They won’t chant. They’ll be too busy with frosting.” Bill took a long drink. “Why are we stealing gifts from children? I mean, morally, I feel like this is a steep drop from my usual standards, which are already at basement level.” Molly lowered her voice. “Because rich children get expensive things. They get tablets, scooters, pony-shaped hovering nonsense. One party like this and we’re set for months.” “Rich children?” Bill repeated. “That’s somehow worse.” “Is it? I think it’s efficient.” “It’s weird.” “It’s crime.” “It’s still weird.” Molly pointed at him. “And yet you’re listening.” Bill looked down at the invitation again. “How many presents?” “According to my source, who is a florist and therefore professionally ignored, there will be at least twenty.” “Your source is a florist?” “The florist’s nephew is the birthday boy.” “The circle of information is shrinking.” “Bill.” “Fine. Twenty presents. Where do we put them?” Molly smiled the smile she saved for terrible ideas and excellent weather. “In the van.” “We own a van?” “We will.” “We don’t own a van right now.” “We will by noon.” Bill rubbed his face. “Molly, I need you to appreciate how much I hate when your plans involve future purchases.” “They’re practical.” “They’re suspicious.” “Only to cowards.” He pointed at her. “That’s not fair.” “You once got nervous because a shopkeeper asked if you needed a bag.” “I did need a bag. That’s why it was stressful.” Molly laughed, then leaned in. “Listen, we don’t have to hurt anyone. We don’t even have to shout. We just blend in.” “With what?” “With the party.” Bill frowned. “We are two adults in dark coats.” “Change clothes.” “Into what?” She considered this. “Sweatpants?” “We’re criminals, not divorced uncles.” Molly drummed her fingers on the table. “Okay. Bright shirts. Balloons. Maybe one of those paper cone hats. Confidence is camouflage.” Bill stared. “You want me to rob a children’s party wearing a party hat.” “I want you to stop saying ‘rob a children’s party’ like it’s the only part of the sentence.” “It is the part I object to most.” Molly folded the invitation and slipped it into her pocket. “You’re coming.” Bill exhaled through his nose. “Tell me one good reason.” “Because the neighbors are having a security blind spot while everyone is busy singing.” “That sounds like a terrible reason.” “It’s the best one we’ve got.” He looked toward the window, where a yellow school bus passed in the rain. “And the kids?” Molly’s expression softened just enough to be dangerous. “They’ll survive. They always do.” Bill nodded slowly, then pointed a spoon at her. “If one of them cries, I’m quitting.” “If one of them cries, you’ll probably cry first.” “I absolutely will not.” Molly stood, dropping a few coins on the table. “Meet me at seven. Wear something festive.” Bill groaned. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” “I hate your ideas.” “That’s fair.” He watched her head for the door, then called after her, “Molly?” She turned. He sighed. “Do we at least get cake?” Molly smiled like a fox that had found the pantry unlocked. “Bill, we’re professionals.”