Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N990BGSY5YVFB6DW6K0HZ

Molly spread the crayon-drawn invitation across the café table like a military map. “There it is, Bill. Four o’clock. Princesses, pirates, jelly, cake, and a mountain of presents.” Bill squinted. “That’s not a map. That’s a unicorn wearing sunglasses.” “It’s symbolic.” “It’s sticky.” “That’s jam. Focus. We’re going to break into that children’s party and steal all the presents.” Bill took a solemn sip of tea. “All of them?” “All of them.” “Even the noisy ones?” “Especially the noisy ones.” Bill shuddered. “I once stole a toy trumpet. Haven’t known peace since.” Molly tapped the invitation. “The birthday child is called Poppy. Age six. Known weaknesses: glitter, balloons, and believing adults know what they’re doing.” “That last one is a tragic flaw.” “Exactly. We stroll in confidently.” “As what?” Molly smiled. “Entertainers.” Bill looked down at his wrinkled coat. “I look like a magician who’s lost a fight with a laundry basket.” “Perfect. Children love chaos.” “I don’t.” “You love profit.” “I love profit quietly. Preferably while sitting down.” Molly leaned closer. “Imagine it. Wrapping paper. Ribbons. Boxes of every shape. We lift the lot and vanish before anyone notices.” Bill frowned. “Children notice everything. Last week one told me my eyebrows looked ‘worried.’ I’ve been thinking about it ever since.” “Then don’t make eye contact.” “With forty children?” “Fine. Wear a hat.” “What kind of hat says, ‘I am meant to be here and definitely not stealing a remote-control dinosaur’?” “A pirate hat.” Bill considered this. “Pirates do steal things.” “Exactly.” “But pirates at children’s parties are expected to say ‘Arrr’ and be cheerful.” “You can say ‘Arrr’.” “My ‘Arrr’ sounds apologetic.” “Practice.” “Arrr?” “That sounded like you’d stepped on soup.” Bill lowered his voice. “Molly, have you considered the moral dimension?” She blinked. “The what?” “The moral dimension. Tiny people. Birthday joy. Cake breath.” “The presents are probably educational. We’d be saving them.” “From literacy?” “From disappointment. Nobody wants wooden fractions.” Bill picked up the invitation and turned it over. “It says, ‘No gifts necessary. Donations welcome for the animal shelter.’” Molly froze. “What?” “It says there’ll be a present table for the shelter. Blankets, treats, chew toys.” Molly snatched it back. “That changes nothing.” “It changes many things. For one, we’d be stealing from dogs.” “Dogs don’t understand property.” “They understand betrayal.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going soft.” “I’m going sensible. Also, I like dogs. They don’t comment on eyebrows.” Molly sat back, drumming her fingers. “So what are you suggesting?” “We break in—” “Good.” “—to deliver extra presents.” Molly stared at him. “That is not a heist.” “It is if we do it secretly.” “A reverse heist?” “Exactly. We sneak in with biscuits, squeaky bones, perhaps a tasteful blanket, and leave richer in spirit.” “I hate being rich in spirit. It’s impossible to spend.” Bill smiled. “We could still wear pirate hats.” Molly hesitated. “And say ‘Arrr’?” “Generously.” “And eat cake?” “If invited.” “We won’t be invited.” “We’re entertainers. Remember?” Molly folded the invitation with a sigh. “Fine. But I’m not doing balloon animals.” “Good. Your giraffe looked like a crime scene.” “That was a giraffe?” “I was being kind.” Molly stood, grabbing her coat. “Come on, then. We need supplies.” “For the shelter?” “For the shelter. And one toy trumpet.” Bill stopped dead. “Molly.” “What? It’s for the dogs.” “No dog deserves that.” She grinned. “Then consider it our getaway siren.”