Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N1R9457TM6Z7HHT7AT82K

Molly unfolded the crayon-smeared invitation on the café table and weighed it down with a doughnut. Across from her, Bill peered over his sunglasses, which was impressive because it was raining and they were indoors. “Operation Jellybean begins at fourteen hundred,” Molly said. “Do we have to call it that?” Bill asked. “It sounds sticky.” “It is a children’s party, Bill. Everything will be sticky.” He shuddered. “I once stepped on a gummy bear and lost a shoe.” “That was last Tuesday.” “And I’m still grieving.” Molly tapped the invitation. “The target: number 42, Maple Crescent. Birthday girl: Poppy. Age: six. Expected haul: twelve to fifteen wrapped parcels, possibly more if grandparents are overcompensating.” “Grandparents always overcompensate,” Bill said. “That’s why I became one.” “You don’t have children.” “I’m emotionally a grandfather. I carry mints and judge lawns.” Molly slid a notebook toward him. “Security?” “Clown at the gate,” Bill said. “Name: Professor Pickles. Threat level: high.” “Because he’s a clown?” “Because he made me a balloon dachshund and then charged me three pounds.” “Focus. We enter disguised as entertainers.” Bill looked down at his striped shirt. “I’m already halfway to mime.” “No mimes. Children hate silence.” “Children hate vegetables. Silence is popular with parents.” “We are not there to debate childcare philosophy. We are there to remove presents.” “Right. Ethically.” Molly blinked. “Ethically?” “We only steal the boring ones. Educational puzzles. Socks. Anything labelled ‘from Auntie June.’” “That is not how theft works.” “It’s how compassionate theft works.” Molly sighed and produced two party hats from her bag. One was pink with glitter. The other had a rubber chicken glued to it. “I refuse the chicken,” Bill said. “You’re wearing the chicken. You’re Uncle Chuckles.” “I thought I was Bill.” “You can be both. It’s called character work.” Bill put on the hat. The chicken bobbed sadly over his forehead. “What’s our exit strategy?” he asked. “Back garden. There’s a bouncy castle.” “We’re escaping by bouncy castle?” “We cross it, hop the fence, load presents into the laundry van.” Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Whose laundry van?” “Ours, if you finish repainting ‘St. Bartholomew’s Choir Robes’ on the side.” “I miss when criminals used getaway cars.” “And I miss when you didn’t eat the evidence.” “It was a cupcake wrapper. Barely evidence.” The café door opened, letting in a gust of wet air and the distant sound of children shrieking with sugar-fueled joy. Molly checked her watch. “Ten minutes. Review roles.” “You’re Madame Marzipan, face painter and balloon artist.” “Correct.” “I’m Uncle Chuckles, assistant, gift relocation specialist, and emotionally available grandfather.” “Less grandfather.” “Fine. Emotionally available uncle.” “Less emotion.” “Available uncle.” “Better.” Bill leaned closer. “What if Poppy cries?” Molly paused. “Why would Poppy cry?” “Because we steal all her presents.” “We’re not stealing them in front of her. We’re professionals.” “She’ll notice eventually.” “Bill, are you getting soft?” “No. I’m getting practical. Crying children attract adults. Adults attract questions. Questions attract police. Police attract paperwork.” Molly considered this, then drew a square around “Poppy” in her notebook. “We substitute.” “With what?” Bill brightened. “Vegetables.” “No.” “Character-building vegetables.” “No.” “We leave one magnificent present,” he said. “A decoy so grand nobody notices the rest are gone.” Molly frowned. “Such as?” Bill reached under his chair and lifted a battered cardboard box tied with string. “You brought a present?” “For emergencies.” “What’s in it?” “A remote-control ferret.” “There is no such thing.” “There is after you tape wheels to a sock.” Molly stared at him. “It has googly eyes,” Bill added. “That might work.” “Children love motion and poor craftsmanship.” “Fine. We replace the pile with the ferret.” “And maybe we don’t take the teddy bear-shaped one,” Bill said. “That looks personal.” “We are thieves, Bill.” “We are tasteful thieves.” Outside, a van rolled past with a painted sign: Happy Hippo Party Hire. Molly stood, scooping up the invitation, notebook, and doughnut. “Last chance to back out.” Bill adjusted the rubber chicken. “Never. But if Professor Pickles starts making balloon animals, you handle him.” “With pleasure.” “And if a child asks me to juggle?” “Drop everything.” “That I can do.” They stepped into the rain. Down the street, Maple Crescent glittered with bunting, balloons, and the sort of parental optimism that had never met Molly and Bill. Molly smiled. “Remember, in and out.” Bill nodded gravely. “Like a burglar in a ball pit.” “Please stop making our crimes sound adorable.” “I can’t help it,” he said. “We’re wearing party hats.”