Run: 2026-07-09-01KX404YAQRHCEK0NGM5VMR73A

Molly peered through the hedge at the bungalow, where balloons bobbed like suspiciously cheerful jellyfish. “There. The birthday stash is in the dining room. I counted fourteen parcels, one scooter, and a teddy bear the size of a tax inspector.” Bill adjusted his black wool cap. “Why are children’s parties so aggressively decorated?” “To confuse burglars.” “It’s working. I feel threatened by the bunting.” From inside came the muffled shriek of a dozen children attempting a game involving music, chairs, and apparently civil unrest. Molly unfolded a crumpled diagram. “We wait until they start pass-the-parcel. Then everyone’s facing the same direction, emotionally compromised by a tiny plastic whistle.” Bill studied the drawing. “You’ve labeled the kitchen ‘cupcake hazard.’” “Last time I stepped on frosting and left a trail straight to the getaway van.” “That was buttercream. It had a distinctive sole print.” “It had sprinkles, Bill. The police practically dusted them for fingerprints.” Bill nodded gravely. “Never underestimate edible evidence.” A small dog appeared at the garden gate, wearing a paper crown and glaring at them with the authority of a nightclub bouncer. Molly froze. “That wasn’t in the briefing.” “We had a briefing?” “I whispered ‘dog?’ in the taxi.” “I thought you were asking whether I wanted a hot dog.” “You said yes.” “I did want one.” The dog barked once, sharply. Bill crouched. “Easy, little fellow. We’re not here to hurt anyone.” “We are here to steal presents,” Molly hissed. “Don’t phrase it like that.” “What phrasing would you prefer?” “We’re redistributing joy.” “To ourselves?” “To the secondary market.” The dog sniffed Bill’s trouser leg, then sneezed and retreated beneath a plastic slide. Molly exhaled. “Right. We go in through the back.” “The back door has a childproof lock.” “Which means?” “Neither of us can operate it.” “Don’t be negative.” “I’m being historically accurate.” The music stopped. A roar erupted from the house. Molly glanced through the window. “Pass-the-parcel has begun. This is it.” Bill looked at the heap of brightly wrapped gifts. “Do you think any of them are decent?” “One has the shape of a robot.” “Could be socks.” “Children get socks?” “Children get everything. That’s why we’re in this business.” They crept across the lawn, stepping around plastic dinosaurs and a deflated unicorn. Molly reached the patio door just as a small face appeared on the other side of the glass. Bill went rigid. Molly smiled brightly and waved. The child waved back, then pointed at Bill. “He thinks we’re entertainers,” Molly whispered. “I don’t entertain.” “You wore a black mask.” “It’s professional.” “To a six-year-old, you’re either a magician or a bank robber.” The child vanished. A moment later, the patio door swung open. Bill stumbled inside, followed by Molly. A roomful of children turned toward them. Molly raised both hands. “Good afternoon! We are… the Present Inspectors.” Bill stared at her. “The what?” “The Present Inspectors,” Molly repeated. “We check presents for dangerous levels of excitement.” A child frowned. “My mum says strangers are bad.” Bill nodded. “Correct. Very sensible mum. We’ll be leaving.” Molly grabbed a parcel. “After this routine inspection.” The children surged forward. “Can we inspect them too?” one demanded. “No,” said Molly. “Yes,” said Bill. Molly glared at him. Bill smiled weakly. “Teamwork exercise.” Within seconds, fourteen children had seized the presents, torn off the wrapping paper, and were arguing over batteries, stickers, and a robot that did indeed turn out to be socks. Molly watched the empty table in horror. Bill patted her shoulder. “On the bright side, no evidence.” The birthday child held up a glittery card. “You can have my party bag.” Molly looked inside. “A plastic spider, raisins, and a whistle.” Bill took the whistle. “Best haul we’ve had all month.”