Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N1SWNW83STMWD38F1QE9J

Molly spread the crinkled floor plan across the bonnet of Bill’s van, weighing one corner down with a half-eaten sausage roll and the other with a glittery party invitation she had stolen from a recycling bin. Bill squinted at the invitation. “Princess Sparkle’s Seventh Birthday Extravaganza,” he read. “That sounds heavily guarded.” “It’s a church hall, Bill.” “Same thing, if there are grandparents.” A gust of wind lifted the map, flapping it into Molly’s face. She peeled it off with dignity. Across the street, the hall blazed with balloons, bunting, and the shrieks of thirty children being given access to icing. A man in a dinosaur costume lumbered past the window, pursued by toddlers with foam swords. Molly tapped the drawing. “We enter through the kitchen at two fifteen, during musical statues. Everyone will be distracted by the brutal emotional fallout of elimination.” Bill nodded gravely. “Cruel game.” “We cross here, behind the trestle tables, avoid the jelly zone, and reach the present mountain.” “Mountain is right,” Bill said. “I saw one wrapped box the size of a washing machine.” “That’ll be a dollhouse.” “Or a very patient pony.” Molly gave him a look. “We are not stealing livestock.” “Not after Brighton,” Bill agreed. The plan, in theory, was elegant. In practice, Bill was wearing a magician’s cape Molly had found in the van, because she’d insisted disguises were essential and he’d refused to be the clown again. Molly had dressed as a face painter, complete with palette, brushes, and a laminated badge reading Certified Butterfly Specialist. At two fourteen, they crept to the side door. “It’s locked,” Bill whispered. Molly produced a hairpin. “Please. I once opened a bank vault with a paperclip and a disappointing sandwich.” “That story changes every time.” “The sandwich was always disappointing.” The lock clicked. They slipped inside and found themselves not in the kitchen but in a storage cupboard packed with folding chairs, traffic cones, and one suspiciously judgmental mop. Bill’s cape snagged on a hook. He stumbled forward, knocking over a stack of plastic chairs that clattered like a collapsing robot orchestra. From the hall came silence. Then a small voice said, “Mummy, the magician’s early.” Molly inhaled sharply. “Smile.” They stepped out. Thirty children turned toward them. So did twenty parents, four grandparents, the dinosaur, and a woman holding a birthday cake shaped like a unicorn with the weary calm of a bomb disposal expert. Bill raised both hands. “Behold!” A child screamed with delight. Another screamed because the first one had. The dinosaur gave Bill a thumbs-up. Molly leaned toward him. “We improvise for three minutes, then presents.” “I don’t know magic.” “You’ve made my patience disappear for years.” Bill grabbed the sausage roll from his pocket, realized this was not magical, and shoved it behind Molly’s ear. The children gasped. “Again!” shouted Princess Sparkle herself, wearing a crown and the expression of a tiny empress. Bill bowed, knocking his forehead against a balloon arch. Molly used the distraction to edge toward the gift table, which glittered under a landslide of bows and wrapping paper. She had just lifted a parcel labeled To Poppy, love Grandma when the birthday girl appeared beside her. “That one’s mine.” Molly froze. “Ah. I’m checking it for… dragons.” “There are no dragons. There’s a puzzle. I asked Grandma.” Bill, meanwhile, had accidentally started a conga line. It wound between tables, gathering children, parents, the dinosaur, and two elderly ladies with terrifying rhythm. He passed Molly at speed, eyes wide. “Abort?” he hissed. “Obviously.” But escape was blocked by the conga, the cake, and a boy demanding a rabbit from Bill’s hat. Molly set the parcel down. Princess Sparkle folded her arms. “Are you really a face painter?” Molly looked at the child, then at the presents, then at Bill being forced to produce miracles from a top hat containing only old receipts. “Yes,” she said. “And I do excellent butterflies.” Ten minutes later, Molly was painting a queue of sticky children while Bill performed increasingly desperate magic involving napkins, coins, and one miraculous appearance of the missing TV remote from under a grandfather’s cardigan. When they finally staggered back to the van, empty-handed and dusted in glitter, Bill collapsed into the passenger seat. “Worst heist ever,” he said. Molly examined the envelope Princess Sparkle had pressed into her palm. Inside was a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin and seven pounds in coins. “Not entirely,” she said. “We’ve been paid.” Bill considered this. “Children’s parties every Saturday?” Molly started the van. “Only if you learn a second trick.” Bill pulled a jelly snake from his sleeve and stared at it. Molly sighed. “Fine. One and a half.”