Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0PJ6VVFJ2BNDHYQD8ZTGQ8

Molly spread a napkin-map across the café table, weighing down one corner with a doughnut and the other with Bill’s guilty-looking elbow. Outside, rain polished the pavement; inside, Bill polished off his third éclair. “Focus,” Molly said. “At four o’clock, the children’s party begins. Balloons, cake, shrieking. At four-oh-five, we enter.” “As what?” Bill asked. “As respectable adults.” Bill stared at her. “Fine. As slightly respectable adults.” “That’s better,” Bill said. “I can’t act respectable under pressure. Last time, I saluted a coat rack.” Molly tapped the napkin. It showed a lopsided house, a garden, and something labelled PRESENT MOUNTAIN in aggressive red ink. “The presents will be here,” she said. “Stacked beside the jelly table.” Bill shivered. “Jelly. Wobbly sentry of the dessert world.” “You distract the children.” “With what?” “Balloon animals.” Bill looked wounded. “Molly, I can make three balloon shapes: snake, worried snake, and regrettable sausage.” “Perfect. Children have low standards when screaming.” At the next table, an old woman lowered her newspaper. Molly smiled at her with the innocent warmth of a person definitely not discussing grand larceny beneath a bakery awning. Bill waved. The old woman narrowed her eyes and resumed reading. Molly leaned closer. “While you entertain them, I approach the gifts.” “And then?” “And then I gather them into the sack.” Bill patted the canvas bag at his feet. It had HAPPY TURNIP FARMS printed on the side. “This sack says vegetables,” he said. “Exactly. No one suspects a turnip.” “Everyone suspects a turnip,” Bill said. “They’re sinister.” Molly ignored this. “We leave calmly.” “With all the presents?” “With all the presents.” Bill’s face twisted. “All of them?” “That is usually what ‘all’ means.” “What about the small ones with bows? They’re probably socks. We don’t need socks.” “We are professionals.” “Professional sock thieves?” “Professional opportunity specialists.” Bill sighed and nudged the doughnut off the napkin. It rolled into the ashtray with tragic grace. “Molly,” he said, “how old are these children?” “Six.” “Six?” Bill clutched his chest. “That’s tiny. That’s practically decorative.” “They’ll recover.” “From losing presents?” “They’ll have cake.” “Cake is not a legal substitute for a dinosaur puzzle.” Molly paused. “How do you know there’s a dinosaur puzzle?” Bill looked away. “There’s always a dinosaur puzzle.” The rain ticked harder against the glass. A party horn squeaked somewhere down the street, followed by a chorus of delighted shrieks. Molly folded the napkin slowly. “We’ve stolen from bankers,” Bill said softly. “From taxidermists. From that magician who deserved it.” “He did deserve it.” “But children?” Bill shook his head. “They smell like biscuits and hope.” Molly groaned. “You’re going noble on me.” “I’m going practical. Children bite.” She considered this. From the direction of the party came a crash, then a high voice yelling, “I AM THE DRAGON KING!” Bill pointed. “See? Armed monarchy.” Molly slipped the napkin into her coat. “Fine. New plan.” “We go home?” “No. We break into the party.” Bill winced. “And steal nothing.” He brightened cautiously. “Nothing?” “We replace the presents with better ones.” Bill blinked. “That’s not theft.” “It’s reverse theft.” “That’s charity with a hat on.” Molly stood, snatching up the turnip sack. “Call it whatever you like. We’re still wearing disguises.” Bill grinned. “Can I be a pirate?” “No.” “A dragon king?” “Absolutely not.” Five minutes later, Molly and Bill marched toward the shrieking house carrying a sack full of toy dinosaurs, glitter pens, and one packet of emergency socks. Bill wore a paper crown he had stolen from the café condiment basket. “Respectable adults,” Molly muttered. “Slightly respectable,” Bill corrected, and rang the bell.