Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0MXMVS9JX0Q0GYAY3NH2FR

Molly unfolded the napkin map on the café table with the solemnity of a general revealing troop movements. It had a jam stain where the bouncy castle ought to be and a smear of mustard across the buffet table, but she tapped it as if it were a masterpiece of criminal cartography. Bill squinted. “Is that the front door or a sausage roll?” “Both, depending on timing,” Molly said. “Listen carefully. At precisely two o’clock, the children arrive. At two-fifteen, the magician begins. At two-seventeen, he loses control of the rabbit.” Bill shuddered. “I don’t trust rabbits. Too much confidence.” “That’s when we slip in,” Molly continued, ignoring him. “Disguised as party entertainers.” Bill looked down at the enormous purple trousers Molly had pushed across the table. “I said I’d consider a disguise. I did not say I’d become a grape.” “You’re not a grape. You’re Professor Wobble, balloon philosopher.” “I can’t make balloons.” “You can ask them questions.” Bill considered this. “What is the nature of squeak?” “Exactly.” Outside the café window, rain pattered on the pavement like tiny fingers impatient for cake. Inside, Molly’s eyes glittered with ambition, or possibly too much espresso. She circled the present table on the napkin with a red crayon stolen from the children’s menu. “There,” she whispered. “The mountain.” Bill leaned closer. “How many presents?” “Thirty, perhaps forty. Wrapped. Ribboned. Unguarded.” “They’re for a six-year-old, Molly.” “And six-year-olds are notoriously careless with inventory.” Bill rubbed his chin. “What if one of them cries?” “One of the presents?” “One of the children.” Molly paused. This was the sort of moral pothole she preferred to step over briskly. “We’ll be quick.” “That doesn’t answer the crying.” “We’ll bring stickers.” Bill brightened. “I like stickers.” “Not for you.” He slumped. Molly drew a dotted line from the side gate to the hall. The line wobbled through what appeared to be a paddling pool, a shrubbery, and a suspicious blob labeled DANGER: AUNT LINDA. “Who’s Aunt Linda?” Bill asked. “The hostess’s sister. Former netball champion. Current human drawbridge.” “Can she be bribed?” “With compliments, maybe. She runs on praise and potato salad.” Bill nodded gravely. “I’ll tell her her cardigan looks fast.” “Good. While she’s distracted, I move the presents into the laundry basket.” “Laundry basket?” “Perfectly innocent. Nobody suspects laundry. It’s society’s blind spot.” Bill tapped the napkin. “And then?” “Then we roll it out under the tablecloth during musical statues.” “Children are excellent at spotting movement,” Bill said. “They’re low to the ground.” Molly frowned. “You’re right. We need a diversion.” “A small fire?” “No fires.” “A large fire?” “Bill.” “A philosophical balloon lecture?” Molly’s face lit up. “Yes. You gather them round and ask whether a balloon animal knows it’s an animal.” “That could buy us minutes.” “Or start a tiny religion.” At the next table, an elderly woman lowered her newspaper and gave them a look sharp enough to open tins. Molly smiled politely and placed a sugar bowl over the words STEAL ALL PRESENTS. Bill lowered his voice. “What if the presents are boring?” “They won’t be.” “They might be socks.” “Then we steal socks.” “Or educational puzzles.” “Then we improve ourselves.” He sighed. “I was hoping for treasure.” “This is treasure,” Molly said. “Childhood treasure. Plastic castles, remote-control dinosaurs, glitter slime with the destructive power of artillery.” Bill’s eyes softened. “I did want a dinosaur when I was little.” Molly looked at him for a long second, then shook it off. Sentiment was bad for business and worse for burglary. She folded the napkin map into a neat square and tucked it into her coat. “Final question,” Bill said. “What’s the birthday child’s name?” Molly checked her notes. “Petunia.” Bill blinked. “We’re robbing a Petunia?” “Don’t get attached.” But when they arrived at the community hall that afternoon, dressed in purple trousers and criminal optimism, a banner drooped over the door: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PETUNIA! Beside it stood a tiny girl in a paper crown, solemnly handing cupcakes to arriving guests. She offered one to Bill. “Are you the balloon philosopher?” Bill swallowed. “I am.” Petunia beamed. “I saved you the biggest cake.” Molly stared at the present table. Then at the cake. Then at Bill, whose lower lip had begun the wobble of a man defeated by frosting. “Change of plan,” Molly muttered. Bill nodded. “We steal nothing?” Molly picked up a balloon. “We steal the show.”