Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0PX10MQPBYVC5RG1QG08SH

Molly spread the invitation on the café table as if it were a treasure map. It was pink, glittery, and smelled faintly of cupcakes. “Target: Daisy Pumpernickel’s seventh birthday,” she said. “Location: community hall. Time: two o’clock. Prize: approximately forty wrapped presents.” Bill squinted. “Forty? For one child?” “Modern parenting is an arms race.” “Right,” Bill said. “And we’re stealing them because?” “Because we are thieves, Bill. It’s in the job title.” “I just feel there’s a scale of villainy, and pinching a unicorn puzzle from a seven-year-old is near the pointy end.” Molly tapped the invitation. “We’re not pinching a unicorn puzzle. We’re acquiring unknown assets in decorative paper.” “That sounds worse.” “It sounds professional.” Bill took a bite of his toast. “What’s the plan?” “We enter disguised as entertainers.” “As what?” Molly smiled. “Clowns.” Bill stopped chewing. “Absolutely not.” “Why?” “I have dignity.” “You once hid in a laundry basket for six hours because a security guard sneezed.” “That was tactical linen deployment.” “Fine. Not clowns. Magicians.” “I don’t know magic.” “You don’t need to know magic. You just need to say, ‘Behold!’ and point somewhere.” “What if they expect a rabbit?” “We’ll bring a courgette in a hat.” Bill stared at her. “Children know the difference between rabbits and courgettes.” “Not if we act confident.” A waitress passed. Bill lowered his voice. “And while I’m humiliating myself with hat vegetables, what are you doing?” “I mingle near the present table, compliment the wrapping, assess weight, size, and rattle.” “Rattle?” “Lego rattles. Books thud. Socks whisper.” “Socks whisper?” “They say, ‘Disappointment.’” Bill leaned back. “Suppose the parents notice all the presents vanishing?” “That’s where Phase Two comes in.” “There’s a Phase Two?” “There are always phases. Phase Two: distraction. You announce a spectacular illusion.” “With the courgette?” “With flair. You cry, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to witness the impossible!’ Then everyone turns.” “And what impossible thing do I do?” “You drop the courgette.” “That’s possible.” “Not the way you do it.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Molly, these are children. They’ll cry.” “They cry at napkins touching peas.” “That doesn’t make it acceptable.” Molly frowned at the invitation. A cartoon dinosaur grinned up at her, wearing a party hat and holding a balloon. Beneath it, in wobbly handwriting, Daisy had added: Please come. There will be cake. Bill softened. “Look at that. She wrote ‘please.’” “It could be a trap.” “It’s glitter glue.” “Glitter glue is how they get you.” “Molly.” She sighed. “Fine. Perhaps stealing all the presents is excessive.” “Thank you.” “We’ll steal half.” “Molly.” “A third?” “No.” “One suspiciously expensive-looking box?” “No.” She folded her arms. “You are very difficult to commit crimes with today.” “I’m evolving.” “Into what, a youth worker?” “Possibly a respectable uncle.” Molly shuddered. “Don’t say things like that in public.” Bill picked up the invitation. “What if we still break into the party?” “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said.” “But instead of stealing presents, we steal something else.” Molly perked up. “Cake?” “No.” “Balloons?” “No.” “The parents’ sense of security?” “We steal the show.” She blinked. “What?” “We go as terrible magicians, perform badly, make the children laugh, eat cake, and leave with party bags like honest freeloaders.” Molly considered this. “Party bags sometimes contain chocolate coins.” “Exactly.” “And stickers.” “High-value stickers.” “And nobody cries.” “Except possibly me, if I have to wear a cape.” Molly extended her hand. “Bill, you drive a hard bargain.” He shook it solemnly. “No stealing presents.” “No stealing presents,” she agreed. “Unless one of them is socks.” “Molly.” “What? I’d be doing Daisy a favor.”