Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NDHP2W314VDMFE34YRE3M

Molly crouched behind the rhododendrons, peering through a gap in the leaves at the community hall. Bright balloons bobbed along the fence, each one printed with a grinning dinosaur wearing a party hat. A banner over the door read HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, TOBY! in letters so cheerful they felt personally insulting. Beside her, Bill adjusted his black knit cap, which still had a price tag dangling from the seam. He held a notebook labeled MASTER PLANS, though most of the pages were covered in sandwich orders. “There they are,” Molly whispered. “The presents.” Through the hall window, a table sagged beneath a mountain of glittering parcels. Silver bows gleamed. Gift bags leaned together like gossiping aunties. One box was large enough to contain a bicycle, a pony, or, judging by the size of Toby’s family, both. Bill sucked in a breath. “That’s a lot of wrapping paper.” “That’s a lot of loot.” “It’s a children’s party, Molly.” “It’s a fortress of opportunity.” Bill glanced toward the parking lot, where parents unloaded cupcakes and toddlers in superhero capes. “I’m just saying, stealing from children feels like something that gets you haunted.” “By who? The ghost of pass-the-parcel?” “Worse. Disappointed grandmothers.” Molly opened her backpack and removed two items: a coil of rope and a tray of iced biscuits shaped like stars. “Phase one: distraction. We enter as entertainers.” Bill looked at the biscuits. “We’re bakers?” “Magicians.” “Do magicians usually bring biscuits?” “Bad magicians do. That’s why people don’t watch their hands.” Bill considered this. “What’s my stage name?” “The Great Billdini.” His face lit up. “That’s excellent.” “It is adequate. Once inside, you perform the disappearing coin trick.” “I don’t know a disappearing coin trick.” “You put a coin in your pocket and tell everyone it disappeared.” Bill frowned. “That’s not magic. That’s lying with stationery.” “Exactly. While they’re confused, I load the presents into the trolley.” He looked around. “What trolley?” Molly pointed to a bright red wagon chained to a lamppost, already filled with toy shovels and a sleeping teddy bear. “We borrow that.” “That teddy looks like a witness.” “Teddies never talk.” “They do in court if the child is sad enough.” The hall doors opened, and a woman in a dinosaur apron stepped outside carrying a bin bag. She was followed by a boy in a cardboard T. rex head who roared at a pigeon until it left with offended dignity. Molly ducked lower. “Security is lighter than expected.” “That boy is clearly feral.” “He’s seven.” “Exactly. No conscience yet.” Molly studied the building. The side door had been propped open with a crate of juice boxes. Music thumped from inside, a chaotic blend of pop songs and shrieking. The smell of pizza drifted across the grass, weakening Bill’s moral framework. “Maybe,” Bill said slowly, “we steal only the presents from rich relatives.” “How would we know which are rich?” “Better tape.” “No.” “Or we replace the presents with educational leaflets about sharing.” Molly turned to him. “Bill, are you trying to improve this crime?” “I’m trying to survive Christmas spiritually.” “It’s April.” “My spirit keeps records.” A burst of laughter came from the hall. Through the window, Toby was opening a small package. He pulled out a plastic dinosaur and hugged it like it had returned from war. The adults applauded. A little girl offered him one of her crisps. He accepted it with solemn gratitude. Bill sighed. Molly kept staring at the present table, but something in her expression slipped. The huge box wobbled as two children climbed under it, pretending it was a cave. A baby smeared frosting on a ribbon. Someone’s grandfather fell asleep wearing a paper crown. “This is sloppy,” Molly said. “Very.” “No professional oversight.” “None.” “The ribbon security alone is embarrassing.” “Tragic.” She zipped her backpack shut. “New plan.” Bill brightened nervously. “Does it involve leaving?” “It involves entering.” “Oh dear.” Molly marched from the bushes before he could stop her. Bill hurried after, trying to look like a man who belonged at a dinosaur party and not like one who had recently hidden in landscaping. At the door, the woman in the apron blinked. “Can I help you?” Molly held up the biscuits. “We heard there was a shortage of magicians.” “There wasn’t.” “There is now,” Bill said, producing a coin from behind his own ear by accident and looking astonished. Ten minutes later, The Great Billdini was surrounded by children demanding he remove more money from his head, while Molly stood by the present table tying bows into firmer knots. She reorganized the parcels by size, reinforced a collapsing gift bag, and placed the giant box safely away from foot traffic. Bill caught her eye across the room. “Are we still thieves?” Molly handed a child a biscuit. “Today we’re consultants.” “Unpaid?” She glanced at the pizza table. “Let’s not get dramatic.”