Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AE6XAV330YCBHJZH3ZD45

Molly crouched behind the hedges outside the community hall, peering through a window bright with balloon reflections. “Tell me again why we’re dressed like caterers.” Bill tugged at the white apron tied over his coat. “Because I lost the janitor uniforms.” “You said you had them.” “I said I had a feeling.” Molly stared at him. “Bill, feelings do not come with spare keys.” “Some do.” “Not yours.” Inside, children’s laughter bobbed through the glass like marbles in a tin. A banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ZOE! swayed above a table loaded with cupcakes, glittering juice boxes, and a mountain of wrapped presents. Bill squinted. “There they are. All the loot in one place.” Molly sighed. “You mean the gifts.” “I prefer the professional term.” “There is no professional term for stealing presents from a six-year-old’s party.” Bill adjusted the paper chef’s hat perched on his head at a crooked angle. “Then the whole industry has been too casual.” Molly pressed two fingers to her forehead. “What exactly was your plan?” “My plan was elegant.” “That’s never reassuring.” “We stroll in, look official, perhaps hold a clipboard. No one questions a clipboard.” “Bill, you can’t spell your own name without pausing for inspiration.” “I can spell ‘clipboard.’” “You spelled it wrong on the fruit basket invoice.” “I was under pressure.” A tiny hand appeared at the window, smearing frosting against the glass. Bill waved back before remembering himself. The hand vanished. A moment later, a little voice rang from inside, “Mom! The cake man is making faces!” Molly winced. “We are not the cake people.” “We could be. It’s a market with growth potential.” “The market with growth potential is prison.” Bill frowned at the presents. “All those ribbons. All that paper. It’s practically begging for a strategic redistribution.” Molly turned to him sharply. “Say ‘strategic redistribution’ to me again and I’ll redistribute your teeth.” He held up both hands. “Fine. Fine. I’m just saying it’s a waste. Kids get too many toys.” “Bill.” “Not all kids, obviously. Just the ones with parties.” “Bill.” He followed her gaze into the hall. A small girl in a sparkly hat was trying to tie a balloon to a stuffed giraffe while her father knelt beside her, patient and smiling. For a second, Bill’s expression softened into something almost sensible. “Well,” he muttered, “that is annoying.” Molly looked at him. “What is?” “All the happy.” She snorted. “You’re having a conscience. It’s ugly on you.” “I’m not saying I approve of joy.” He leaned closer to the window. “I’m saying I expected more alarms.” “There are children, not vaults.” “Children are worse. They ask questions.” “Exactly. Which is why we are leaving.” Bill glanced at the apron, then back at the room. “We came all this way for nothing.” “No,” Molly said. “We came all this way to prove, once again, that you have terrible ideas.” He sighed. “Could we maybe steal the cake?” “You are impossible.” “I’d settle for one cupcake.” Molly’s mouth twitched despite herself. “If you walk into that party and steal one cupcake, I’ll tell everyone you cried during a bank robbery.” “I did not cry.” “You whined emotionally.” “That’s slander.” “It’s memoir.” Bill rubbed his chin, considering the hall with the solemnity of a man weighing a jewel score and a moral awakening at the same time. “All right,” he said at last. “No presents.” Molly blinked. “Really?” “Really.” She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the catch?” He pointed to a stack of unopened paper plates by the doorway. “We take those.” Molly stared. Then she laughed, quick and helpless. “Paper plates?” “Bigger target. Less security.” “That’s not a heist. That’s housekeeping.” Bill grinned. “Exactly. Clean getaway.” From inside, the party erupted in a round of singing, off-key and earnest. Molly listened, then looked at Bill. “You know what?” “What?” “You’re still not coming in.” “That’s fair.” “And if anyone asks, we were never here.” Bill tipped his absurd chef’s hat. “Naturally. A true professional disappears with dignity.” Molly took his arm and steered him away from the window. “Come on, genius. We’re not robbing children.” “Speak for yourself,” he said. “I’m stealing a cupcake on the way out.”