Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N0F95CTJB7Y8GT29XFSH2

Molly spread the birthday invitation on the café table as if it were a treasure map recovered from a sunken galleon. It was pink, glittery, and shaped like a unicorn. Bill leaned over it with the solemnity of a man examining battle plans, though a smear of jam on his collar reduced the effect. The party was scheduled for three o’clock at the Buttercup Community Hall, with games, cake, balloon animals, and, most importantly, a mountain of presents. “This is it,” Molly said. “The score of the century.” Bill squinted. “It says the birthday girl is turning six.” “All the more reason to act fast. Six-year-olds are notoriously distracted.” “They’re also sticky,” Bill said. “I don’t like sticky.” Molly tapped the invitation. “We go in during musical chairs. Everyone’s watching the children circle the seats like tiny sharks. We slip behind the gift table, load the presents, and exit through the side door.” Bill frowned. “What if there’s a clown?” “There’s always a clown.” “I don’t do clowns.” “You robbed a mime convention.” “Mimes don’t honk.” Molly sat back and stirred her tea. The spoon clinked against the cup with criminal impatience. Around them, ordinary customers enjoyed ordinary lunches, unaware that history was being sketched beside the sugar packets. Bill lifted the invitation and sniffed it. “Smells like crayons and doom.” “That’s glitter glue.” “Same thing.” Molly opened her notebook. It was labeled Household Budgets, which she considered a brilliant disguise because no one had ever willingly opened a budget. Inside were diagrams of the hall, a list of possible disguises, and one drawing of Bill wearing fairy wings. He noticed. “Absolutely not,” he said. “You’d make a convincing party helper.” “I’d make a convincing man being punished.” “Fine. You can be the balloon artist.” “I can make one balloon shape.” “A snake?” “A long regret.” Molly sighed. “Bill, focus. Presents. Wrapped boxes. Unknown contents. Toys, games, possibly cash from lazy relatives.” “Or socks.” “Even socks have resale value if you believe in yourself.” Bill folded his arms. “I’m not saying no. I’m saying we need dignity.” “We are thieves planning to burgle a children’s birthday party.” “Exactly. We must cling to what remains.” Outside the window, a bus hissed to a stop. A little boy got off holding a wrapped parcel almost as large as himself. Molly watched him wobble along the pavement, proud and determined, while his mother adjusted the bow on top. For one brief second, Molly’s expression softened. Bill saw it. “You’re thinking about the moral angle.” “No,” Molly said too quickly. “I’m thinking about the weight distribution.” “He looked happy.” “He looked like a courier.” “He looked like a small person taking a gift to a friend.” Molly closed the notebook. “You’re ruining the atmosphere.” “Good. The atmosphere was wearing a mask and smelling of sherbet.” They sat in silence. The invitation glittered between them, absurd and bright. Molly drummed her fingers, then reached for the notebook again. “Revision,” she said. “We don’t steal the presents.” Bill blinked. “We don’t?” “We steal the cake.” “That’s worse.” “We don’t steal the cake. We infiltrate the party, assess security, eat a reasonable slice of cake, and leave.” Bill considered this. “Can we still wear disguises?” “Obviously.” “Can I be the fairy?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “For dignity,” Bill added. At three o’clock, two suspiciously tall “party helpers” arrived at Buttercup Community Hall carrying a bag of balloons and wearing matching smiles. By four o’clock, Molly had won musical chairs against seventeen children and was being booed with impressive coordination. Bill, in glittering wings, made balloon regrets for anyone who asked. The presents remained untouched. The cake, however, suffered a mysterious and significant loss.