Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NBMMDG6GV76AZ9P7WGMGC

Molly spread the birthday invitation across the café table as if it were a map to buried treasure. In a sense, it was. The treasure had glitter stickers, cartoon dinosaurs, and the words Presents may be left on the gift table beside the bouncy castle printed in cheerful blue ink. Bill leaned over it, squinting. A smear of jam glistened on his chin. He had insisted that no criminal enterprise could be planned without scones. “A bouncy castle,” Molly said. “That’s our complication.” “That’s our opportunity,” Bill replied. “It is full of children.” “Exactly. No one expects professionalism near a bouncy castle.” Molly tapped the invitation with one black-painted fingernail. “We’re not stealing from children, technically. We’re stealing from a party.” Bill nodded solemnly. “A party is an institution. Institutions can absorb loss.” “It says here the birthday boy is turning six.” “A small institution.” Molly gave him a look. Bill dabbed his chin with a napkin. “Fine. A medium-small institution with sticky fingers and no tax status.” Outside the café window, rain slid down the glass like nervous sweat. Molly preferred weather that understood crime. Bill preferred weather that allowed hats. Today they had both. Their target was the annual Maple Street birthday extravaganza, hosted by the Harringtons, a family famous for hiring magicians who used live doves and for giving party bags heavy enough to sprain a wrist. Last year, according to Molly’s research, each child had received a miniature telescope, a chocolate fountain voucher, and a kazoo plated in something suspiciously shiny. This year, the gift table would be enormous. Molly removed two crayons from her coat pocket and placed them beside the invitation. Bill frowned. “Why have you got crayons?” “To blend in.” “You’re thirty-four.” “And youthful.” “You once complained that a trampoline had poor lumbar support.” Molly ignored this and drew a rectangle. “Garden. Here’s the bouncy castle. Here’s the cake station. Here’s the gift table.” Bill pointed at a blob near the gate. “What’s that?” “That is you.” “I’m a blob?” “You’re undercover as entertainment.” Bill sat straighter. “I will not be a clown.” “You own three waistcoats and a collapsing top hat.” “That is formal wear.” “You know balloon animals.” “I know balloon sausage. Everything becomes sausage.” Molly smiled. “Perfect. Children have low standards and high volume.” Bill looked wounded, but only briefly, because the waitress arrived with another scone. He took it as a sign from fate. Their plan, if dignified with the word, involved distraction, misdirection, and a large laundry hamper painted to resemble a robot. Molly would enter as the robot’s “operator,” claiming it was an educational demonstration about recycling. Bill would create balloon sausages near the paddling pool until every adult was too baffled to intervene. Then Molly would roll the hamper past the gift table, open the robot’s stomach, and scoop. “No actual running,” Molly said. “Running implies guilt.” “Waddling?” “Purposeful waddling.” Bill considered this. “What if someone asks why the recycling robot is eating presents?” “It’s teaching consumer responsibility.” “Brilliant.” “What if someone asks why the magician has only made balloon sausages?” Bill lifted his chin. “Artistic signature.” Molly folded the invitation. “We leave through the side alley, transfer the presents to the pram, and vanish.” “We have a pram?” “You have a pram.” “I have a shopping trolley with a blanket.” “Criminals improvise.” For a moment, they sat in satisfied silence, listening to teaspoons clink and rain patter. It was almost beautiful, except for the moral ugliness and Bill chewing with his mouth open. Then Molly’s phone buzzed. She checked it, and her expression changed. “What?” Bill asked. She turned the screen toward him. A message from her sister: Don’t forget Saturday! Freddie’s party at Maple Street. Bring a gift. Also, you promised to help supervise the bouncy castle. Bill blinked. Molly blinked back. “The birthday boy,” Bill said slowly, “is your nephew?” “Apparently.” “You didn’t know your own nephew’s age?” “He grows unpredictably.” Bill looked at the invitation, then at the crayons, then at the scone. “So the heist is off?” Molly sighed the sigh of a woman watching a fortune in wrapping paper dissolve. “The heist is revised.” “To what?” She picked up a crayon and drew a new plan over the old one. “We break into the party…” “Yes?” “We steal all the presents…” “Yes?” “And hide them in the garage until cake, so the children don’t open them early and start a riot.” Bill stared at her. “It’s still a heist,” she said. “Just benevolent.” He brightened. “Can I still be the magician?” “You may still be the magician.” “And the robot?” “The robot is now educational.” Bill grinned. “Molly, I think we’ve gone straight.” “Don’t be vulgar,” she said. “We’ve gone seasonal.”