Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AB6QTGG1G3NMCCVWVR7FK

Molly crouched behind the bakery dumpster, studying the flyer she’d stolen from a lamppost. It showed a grinning cartoon dragon wearing a party hat and announced, in cheerful rainbow letters, “Jasper’s Seventh Birthday Spectacular!” Beneath that, in smaller print, the address, the time, and the line that made her eyes narrow with professional appreciation: Gifts to be stacked in the sunroom. Bill leaned over her shoulder and squinted. “So,” he said, “we are, in fact, robbing a child.” “We are recovering unattended merchandise,” Molly said. Bill blinked. “From a clown-themed living room?” “It’s a pirate theme,” Molly said. “Look at the flyer. Eyepatch on the dragon.” “That doesn’t help.” Molly folded the paper and tucked it into her jacket. “The point is, everyone will be distracted. Children, parents, one possibly sweating entertainer. We walk in, blend in, and leave with the presents.” Bill scratched his chin. “I don’t know. Stealing from adults is one thing. They’ve had years to develop cautious reflexes. Children have sticky hands and no concept of boundaries. It feels somehow unfair.” Molly stared at him. “Bill, we are career thieves.” “I know,” he said. “I’m just saying there’s a line.” “There is no line. There is only the sunroom.” He nodded slowly, as though she’d spoken in ancient wisdom. “Right. The sunroom.” Molly pulled two bright paper hats from her bag and held one out to him. “You’re going in as an uncle.” “An uncle?” “Uncles bring lopsided confidence and a smell of aftershave. Put it on.” Bill examined the hat. It was decorated with little gold stars. “I look like a regretful wizard.” “Perfect. Children trust wizards.” “No they don’t.” “They absolutely do. They also trust men carrying balloons and anyone who can whistle through their teeth.” Bill tried the hat on, and it perched above his ears with an insultingly festive tilt. “I hate this.” “You should,” Molly said. “If this works, we are professionals. If it doesn’t, we are the worst people at a birthday party since the uncle who cried into the punch bowl.” Bill peered down the alley toward the house. Music and shrieks drifted over the fence, along with the sugary scent of cake. “What about the presents? How many are we talking?” “Enough to make it worthwhile.” “Worthwhile for whom?” “For us.” He looked unconvinced. “Are we taking the bikes too? Because if the children are getting bikes, I draw the line at bikes.” “We’re taking whatever fits in the wagon,” Molly said. “Focus.” Bill brightened. “We have a wagon?” Molly pointed to the hedge. A battered red wagon sat there, waiting with criminal patience. “I borrowed it from the park.” “You stole a wagon for the job.” “I prefer ‘acquired.’” Bill admired it. “That is better. Still theft, though.” “Bill.” “Fine. Fine. I’m focusing.” Molly checked her watch. “We go in through the side gate at three. I’ll carry the party plates.” “I love that you know where the plates are.” “I read the neighborhood newsletter.” “You’re terrifyingly organized.” “I’m insultingly prepared.” The back door of the house opened, and a burst of laughter spilled out with a cloud of helium balloons. A woman in a sunhat called, “Who wants juice boxes?” and a chorus of children screamed as though she’d offered treasure. Bill swallowed. “You ever notice how birthday parties are just tiny riots with frosting?” “Exactly,” Molly said. “And rioters leave their valuables unattended.” He squared his shoulders. “All right. We go in, we smile, we act like family, we load the wagon, and we vanish.” Molly grinned. “That’s the spirit.” A little boy in a pirate vest raced across the yard, waving a plastic sword. “Hey! Are you the balloon people?” Bill froze. Molly, without missing a beat, reached into her bag and produced two twisted balloons she had somehow inflated earlier. “Of course,” she said brightly. “We’re very late.” The boy gasped. “Awesome.” Bill stared at her. “You brought balloons.” “I bring options.” The child grabbed one balloon and darted away. Molly took Bill by the elbow and steered him toward the gate. “Try not to look guilty.” Bill whispered, “I am wearing a party hat and carrying an illegal wagon.” “That’s not guilt. That’s commitment.” Together they slipped toward the house, where the presents waited in a glittering heap and the birthday song had just begun, loud enough to cover almost anything.