Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0MTQYAGJB52JMM1BR7WGXZ

Molly spread the blueprint across the bonnet of the ice-cream van and pinned down one corner with a half-eaten packet of sherbet lemons. The “blueprint” was, in fact, a crayon map drawn by Bill after three hours of surveillance from behind a hedge shaped like a duck. At the center of the map was a lopsided rectangle labelled PARTY ZONE. Around it were doodles of balloons, cake, and one very angry-looking woman with triangular hair. “That,” Molly said, tapping the woman, “is Mrs. Pickering. Hostess. Mother. Gatekeeper. Probably runs on coffee and suspicion.” Bill squinted. “I thought that was the bouncy castle.” “The bouncy castle is here.” “Oh. Then why does the bouncy castle have earrings?” “Because you drew it badly.” Bill nodded, accepting this as a professional critique. He wore a magician’s cape over his normal burglar outfit, which Molly had told him was too conspicuous. He had then added a top hat, claiming it made him invisible to children because they respected show business. “We go in at fourteen hundred hours,” Molly said. “Disguised as entertainment.” “I do balloon animals,” Bill said proudly. “I practiced.” “You made a sausage dog that exploded and frightened a postman.” “It had personality.” Molly ignored him and pointed to the back garden. “The presents are stacked on the picnic table, beside the jelly. Our objective is simple: infiltrate, distract, extract.” Bill raised a finger. “What if there’s pass-the-parcel?” “We are not staying for games.” “What if they invite us?” “Bill.” “What if the parcel has something nice in it?” Molly folded her arms. “We are stealing the presents, not entering a moral grey area over musical wrapping paper.” Bill looked hurt. “I like layers.” A gust of wind lifted the map. Molly slapped it down just as a small boy on a scooter rattled past the end of the alley, wearing a pirate hat and yelling, “Mum said the magician’s late!” Bill beamed. “That’s my cue.” “No, that is not your cue. Our cue is when the clown leaves.” From the garden beyond the fence came the unmistakable honk of a plastic horn, followed by the scream of twenty children experiencing either delight or sugar-related collapse. Molly checked her watch. The clown was scheduled for twenty more minutes, assuming he survived. Bill opened the rear doors of the van. Inside were two laundry sacks, a folding table, three rubber chickens, and a birthday cake they had bought as cover. The icing read HAPPY BRIAN, though the party was for a girl named Sophie. “We can say Brian is the rabbit,” Bill offered. “We don’t have a rabbit.” Bill looked into his hat. “Not yet.” Molly closed her eyes briefly. Every job had complications. Bank vaults had alarms. Museums had lasers. Children’s parties had Bill. The clown emerged through the side gate moments later, limping, one shoe missing, his rainbow wig tilted like a defeated shrub. He passed the van without looking up, muttering, “Never again. Not for twins.” Molly snapped into motion. “Right. Showtime.” Bill adjusted his cape. “Do I look magical?” “You look flammable. Stay away from candles.” They marched to the gate carrying the cake between them. Molly wore a clipboard expression, the sort that made adults assume paperwork existed somewhere. Bill swept ahead, cape fluttering, and nearly tripped over a tricycle. Mrs. Pickering appeared at once, blocking the path with a paper plate in one hand and military authority in the other. “You’re late,” she said. “Art cannot be rushed,” Bill declared. Molly kicked his ankle. “Traffic. Terrible. We’re the supplementary party enhancement package.” Mrs. Pickering frowned. “I ordered a magician.” Bill removed his hat and bowed. A rubber chicken fell out, bounced off the paving, and landed in a bowl of crisps. The children cheered. Mrs. Pickering narrowed her eyes, but the cheering had power. Parents fear silence, but they fear entertained children less. She waved them through. The garden was chaos wrapped in bunting. Balloons bobbed like captive planets. A bouncy castle wheezed at one end. At the other, on a picnic table under a pink umbrella, sat the presents: bright, glittering, numerous, and utterly undefended except by one toddler asleep beneath them. Molly’s pulse quickened. “Target acquired,” she murmured. Bill whispered, “The toddler looks like a guard.” “The toddler is drooling.” “That’s what makes him convincing.” Bill took center lawn and began producing handkerchiefs from his sleeve. Unfortunately, they were all socks. The children loved it. Molly edged toward the picnic table with a laundry sack hidden under her cardigan. “Behold!” Bill cried. “I shall now make this chicken disappear!” “You already lost it in the crisps!” shouted a girl. “Exactly! Advanced magic!” As every child turned to argue with him, Molly reached the presents. She lifted the first box. It rattled invitingly. Then she saw the tag. To Sophie, love from Grandma. Hope you like the books. Molly hesitated. The next read: For Sophie, because you were brave at the dentist. Another: To my best friend, from Anya. Molly stood very still, laundry sack open, villainy draining out of her like air from a sad balloon. Across the lawn, Bill had accidentally tied himself to a deck chair with his own endless handkerchief. Children applauded wildly. Molly sighed, set the present down, and picked up the cake instead. Bill spotted her. “Plan changed?” “Plan improved,” she called. Ten minutes later, they left through the gate with no presents, one unpaid parking ticket, and Mrs. Pickering’s grateful promise to recommend them to other parents. Bill carried a party bag. “We’re going straight?” Molly peered inside the bag and found bubbles, sweets, and a pencil shaped like a giraffe. “Temporarily,” she said. “But we’re keeping the giraffe.”