Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09Y13GFP6Y5A9E0BV461MY

The van was parked half a block from St. Brigid’s Community Hall, its side panel painted with the cheerful logo of a plumbing company that had gone out of business in 1997. Inside, Molly studied the party through binoculars while Bill wrestled with a clipboard, a bow tie, and the indignity of being trusted with neither. “Tell me again why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Bill said. Molly lowered the binoculars. “Because it’s the perfect crime.” He blinked. “That sounds wrong in at least six ways.” “It’s not a crime against people,” Molly said. “It’s a crime against gift wrap. Important distinction.” Through the hall windows they could see paper streamers, a balloon arch, and a crowd of sugar-powered children ricocheting off the walls like delighted pinballs. At the center of it all stood a long table loaded with presents, each one tagged with a name in glittery marker, as if the universe itself were inviting them to make a terrible decision. Bill squinted. “You’re sure the birthday kid gets all those?” “Yes.” “And you’re sure no one will miss them for, say, ten minutes?” Molly smiled. “Children are being distracted by cake, clown noses, and whatever emergency is currently happening in the bounce house. We could wheel out a piano and nobody would notice.” “A piano would be noticeable.” “Not to a six-year-old on frosting.” Bill set the clipboard down. It had a fake delivery manifest clipped to it, mostly because he believed paperwork could excuse almost anything if held with sufficient confidence. “So what’s the plan?” Molly pointed with her chin toward the hall entrance, where a volunteer in a paper crown was checking names at the door. “You go in first. You’re the entertainment.” “I’m not entertaining.” “You’re carrying a giant balloon arch labeled ‘Surprise Educational Reptile Experience.’ That’s entertainment.” “I hate that I agreed to this.” “You didn’t agree,” Molly said. “You were emotionally cornered.” Bill sighed. “And what do you do?” “I arrive ten seconds later with the rented folding cart and the fake invoice. I tell the front table we’re from Prize Redistribution Services.” “That’s not a real company.” “No,” said Molly. “But it sounds like one with a government contract.” Bill peered into the hall again. A tiny magician in a cape had just produced a rabbit, and the children were shrieking with the kind of joy usually reserved for meteor sightings. “You ever feel bad about this?” “About stealing presents from children?” “Specifically that, yes.” Molly considered it. “A little. But only because the wrapping paper is so nice. It’s wasteful to let all that craftsmanship go unappreciated.” Bill rubbed his forehead. “You have a strange moral compass.” “It points toward valuables.” A burst of applause drifted from inside as someone’s father failed to cut the cake cleanly and created a frosting landslide. Molly’s eyes narrowed. “There. See? Now’s our opening.” Bill swallowed. “You really think it’ll work?” “It’s a children’s party,” Molly said. “Order breaks down at the first mention of ponies.” He stared at her. “That is not a normal sentence.” “Neither is ‘load the loot before the helium balloons rise.’ Yet here we are.” Bill looked from the hall to the back of the van, where empty crates waited with military neatness. “If this goes wrong, I want it on record that I had a bad feeling.” “If it goes right,” Molly said, handing him the balloon arch, “you had excellent instincts and a strong sense of team spirit.” He took the arch, wobbling under its absurd brightness. “And if someone asks what we’re doing?” Molly pulled on her volunteer lanyard and grinned. “Smile like you belong at a party full of sticky fingers and expensive toys.” Bill straightened his tie. “I really should have become a librarian.” “They’re very cutthroat,” Molly said. “Now walk like you’re bringing joy to a room that has never deserved you.” Together they headed toward the hall, where the music was loud, the cake was advancing, and the presents sat glittering under the streamers like a small, colorful fortune waiting to be mishandled.