Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NDDY3X0HACT8YSK04R8W7

Molly crouched behind the wheel of the rented cupcake van, which smelled violently of vanilla and regret. Across the street, the village hall glittered with balloons, bunting, and the kind of shrieking joy that made experienced criminals consider honest work. A banner over the doors read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ARCHIE! Beneath it stood a mountain of presents. Bill peered through binoculars with one lens missing. “That,” he said, “is a disgraceful amount of wrapping paper.” “It’s a disgraceful amount of profit,” Molly replied. “Remote-control cars, building sets, possibly a chemistry kit. Children today are basically small kings.” Bill lowered the binoculars. “Are we certain about this? Stealing from adults is one thing. Adults have insurance and disappointing marriages. Children have… feelings.” Molly unfolded a crayon-drawn map of the hall. “Focus. We enter during musical statues. Nobody watches the present table during musical statues.” “Because they’re watching children freeze like haunted garden gnomes.” “Exactly.” The plan had been Molly’s, which meant it involved confidence, hats, and at least one assumption that would later turn out to be catastrophic. She had acquired two entertainer costumes from a closing-down theatre shop: a purple magician’s cape for herself and a duck suit for Bill. The duck suit sat between them in the van, yellow, judgmental, and enormous. Bill poked its beak. “Why am I the duck?” “Because I’m allergic to feathers.” “It’s foam.” “I’m emotionally allergic.” From inside the hall came a roar of laughter, followed by a man shouting, “Who wants jelly?” The roar doubled. Bill flinched. Molly checked her watch. “At two-fifteen, the magician arrives.” “I thought you were the magician.” “I am the replacement magician. The real one has been delayed.” “Did you delay him?” Molly looked offended. “I merely gave him directions to the aquarium.” Bill stared at her. “It has a car park,” she added. A small boy in a paper crown appeared at the hall window, pressing his face to the glass until his nose flattened. Molly and Bill ducked. The boy vanished, leaving a greasy oval and an unsettling sense of being judged by the future. Bill whispered, “Maybe we could just steal the cake.” “That’s worse.” “How is cake worse than presents?” “Cake is communal.” He considered this. “Fair.” Molly slid open the van door. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of sausage rolls and impending disaster. She swept the cape around her shoulders and placed a glittering top hat on her head. It had cost two pounds and came with a warning label that read NOT FOR RABBITS. Bill began climbing into the duck suit with the solemnity of a man entering prison. One orange foot stuck under the seat. The beak drooped over his eyes. “I can’t see.” “You don’t need to see. Ducks are mysterious.” “Ducks can see, Molly.” “Successful ducks improvise.” They crossed the street together, Molly striding, Bill waddling and occasionally bouncing off parked cars. At the door, a tired woman with fairy wings and a clipboard blinked at them. Molly smiled brilliantly. “Entertainment.” The woman looked at Bill. Bill raised one padded wing. “Quack,” he said. The woman sighed with the deep exhaustion of someone who had already handled three sugar-related injuries. “You’re late. They’re feral.” Inside, the children turned as one. Thirty pairs of bright eyes fixed on Molly. Then on Bill. Then on the present table. Archie, the birthday king, pointed at the duck. “Can we wrestle him?” Bill leaned close to Molly. “New plan?” Molly looked at the mountain of presents, then at the advancing children. “Yes,” she whispered. “Survive first. Steal later.”