Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N43ZA8B3EDATAY66J7GYJ

Molly pressed her nose to the rain-streaked window of the rented van and squinted at the house across the street. Balloons bobbed on the gate like brightly colored witnesses. A paper banner sagged over the porch, announcing HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, TOBY! in letters large enough to shame the moon. Bill sat beside her with a notebook balanced on his knee, chewing the end of a pencil with the grave concentration of a man defusing a bomb, or choosing soup. “That’s a lot of presents,” Molly said. Bill nodded. “A scandalous quantity.” “Wrapped, ribboned, unattended.” “Temporarily attended,” Bill corrected. “By children sticky with cake, adults weakened by party sausages, and one hired clown whose shoes suggest poor balance.” Molly lowered the binoculars. “Bill, focus. We are not here to critique footwear.” “We are if the footwear becomes relevant to the operation.” In the back of the van, their equipment lay in tragic disarray: two party hats, a plastic wand, a sack labeled LAUNDRY because Bill felt labels made crime look tidy, and a large stuffed crocodile Molly had insisted was “for blending in.” The crocodile stared at them with stitched optimism. “Our objective,” Molly said, tapping the dashboard, “is simple. We enter the children’s party, locate the presents, remove the presents, and leave before anyone asks why neither of us knows Toby.” Bill wrote this down, then underlined Toby twice. “What if Toby asks?” “We compliment his age.” “He’s seven.” “Then we say he wears it well.” Across the street, a woman opened the front door and shouted something cheerful. A stampede of children surged from the hallway into the garden, where a bouncy castle lurched like a blue lung. Molly and Bill both recoiled instinctively. Bill swallowed. “There are more of them than I expected.” “They travel in packs.” “And they scream.” “It’s how they communicate.” A small boy wearing fairy wings tackled another boy dressed as a pirate. The clown attempted to intervene and was immediately given a crown of jam. Bill shut his notebook. “Molly, I’m beginning to question the wisdom of stealing from children.” Molly looked offended. “We are professionals. We question wisdom afterwards, during pie.” “But look at them. They’re so… short.” “That is not a moral category.” “It feels like one.” Molly sighed and watched a little girl place a carefully wrapped present on the growing pile by the front window. The box was decorated with uneven stars, the kind cut by careful hands with blunt scissors. She felt, against her will, a small splinter of conscience wedge itself beneath her ambition. Bill noticed. “You’re thinking it too.” “I am thinking the window latch is terrible.” “You are thinking that present has homemade stars.” “I hate you.” “No, you don’t. You hate that I’m right in a waistcoat.” Molly sank back into her seat. Rain ticked on the roof. From the house came a roar of laughter as the clown slipped, recovered, and bowed as if falling had been art. “So,” Bill said gently, “new plan?” Molly stared at the sack labeled LAUNDRY. Then at the crocodile. Then at the balloons shivering in the rain. “We still break into the party,” she said. Bill blinked. “Pardon?” “We go in, we steal all the presents—” “Molly.” “—from the porch, where the rain is getting them wet, and move them to the dining room. Then we eat cake. Quietly. Criminally quietly.” Bill opened his notebook again. “A humanitarian heist.” “A temporary relocation of loot.” “And if anyone asks who we are?” Molly picked up the stuffed crocodile and tucked it under her arm with dignity. “We’re with the reptile entertainment.”