Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0PFXCF6CVBQKJ4A5XZQNDR

Molly flattened a napkin on the café table and drew a wobbly square in ketchup. “That,” she said, “is the community hall.” Bill leaned in, squinting. “That is a tomato having a difficult afternoon.” “It’s a diagram.” “It’s a crime against cartography.” “Focus, Bill. At three o’clock, the children arrive. At three-fifteen, the magician begins. At three-twenty, every adult in the room will be staring at a man pulling scarves out of his sleeve and wondering why they didn’t finish university.” Bill nodded solemnly. “A vulnerable moment.” “Exactly. We slip in as entertainers.” “I’m not being the clown again.” “You were a wonderful clown.” “I was arrested by a six-year-old with a bubble wand.” “He had natural authority.” “He called me ‘suspicious trousers.’ I still hear it in dreams.” Molly dabbed more ketchup onto the napkin. “Fine. I’ll be the clown. You can be the balloon man.” “I don’t know how to make balloons.” “You twist them.” “Into what?” “Animals.” “What animals?” “Long ones.” “So, worms.” “Children love worms.” “No, children throw worms at each other. I was once a child, Molly. I know the system.” She sighed and pointed to the ketchup square. “The presents will be on the big table by the cake. We enter, mingle, distract, collect, depart.” Bill raised a finger. “Question. What if the presents are heavy?” “We bring sacks.” “Question two. What if the sacks are suspicious?” “We label them ‘Party Fun Supplies.’” “Question three. What if one of the children can read?” Molly paused. “We spell supplies wrong.” “Good. Very authentic.” A waitress passed, glanced at the napkin, and kept walking faster. Bill lowered his voice. “Molly, are we absolutely certain about this? Stealing from children feels… structurally unkind.” “They’re not from the children. They’re for the children.” “That is worse by one preposition.” “We’re not keeping them,” Molly said. Bill blinked. “We’re not?” “No. We’re teaching a lesson.” “To whom?” “To the parents. They’ve been parking across my alley for three Saturdays. This is justice.” “Justice usually wears a blindfold, not oversized shoes and a squeaky nose.” Molly folded her arms. “Do you have a better plan?” “Yes. We ask them to move their cars.” “I tried. They gave me a cupcake.” “That sounds like a successful negotiation.” “It had raisins in it, Bill.” His expression darkened. “Monster behavior.” “Now you understand.” “I understand vengeance. I’m still cloudy on the gift theft.” “We take the presents, hide them in the coat room, then return them after a dramatic announcement.” “What announcement?” Molly lifted her chin. “‘Let this be a lesson in respecting local parking regulations.’” Bill stared. “At a child’s birthday party.” “Yes.” “During cake.” “Before cake. I’m not a villain.” He rubbed his temples. “Molly, the children will cry.” “Briefly.” “The parents will panic.” “Usefully.” “The magician may attack us with scarves.” “We’ll be ready.” “No one is ever ready for magician scarves.” Molly looked down at the ketchup map, then at Bill’s worried face. Outside, a small boy in a paper crown skipped past the window, clutching a wrapped box with a silver bow. Bill softened. “Look at him. That’s a lad expecting joy, Molly. Tiny, loud joy.” Molly watched the boy disappear into the hall across the street. “He is blocking my alley by association.” “He’s four.” “Old enough to learn society has rules.” “Molly.” “What?” “We are thieves, not monsters.” She picked up the napkin, inspected the smeared square, and crumpled it. “Fine. We won’t steal the presents.” “Excellent.” “We’ll steal the cars.” “Molly.” “Kidding.” “Were you?” “Mostly.” Bill smiled. “New plan. We attend the party, eat cake, and politely mention the alley.” “And the raisins?” “If there are raisins, we call the police.” Molly stood and adjusted her red nose in her pocket. “Come on, then. But if that magician makes one joke about my shoes, I’m hiding his rabbit.” “That,” Bill said, following her, “is the reasonable criminal compromise I married this profession for.”