Run: 2026-07-09-01KX405PX6GH7ZZXMD81B9PBP9

Molly spread the crayon-blue floor plan across the café table. Bill leaned closer, dipping his tie into his soup. “That’s gravy,” Molly said. “I know.” “You’re wearing it.” “I’m saving it for later.” “Focus. Saturday, fourteen hundred hours. Daisy Muldoon’s seventh birthday.” “Codename?” “Operation Tiny Cake.” “Too obvious.” “Operation Screaming Sprinkles?” “Accurate, but wordy.” “Operation Take All the Presents?” Bill glanced around the crowded café. “Quietly.” “You asked for a codename, not a confession.” “What’s our objective?” “The presents under the balloon arch.” “All of them?” “All.” “Even the soft rectangular ones?” “Especially those.” “They’re clothes.” “Designer clothes.” “For children.” “Small fabric, enormous markup.” Bill tapped the plan. “Entry points?” “Front door, kitchen door, garden gate.” “Security?” “Six parents, one grandmother, a magician, and thirty-two children on industrial quantities of lemonade.” Bill went pale. “Thirty-two?” “Daisy is popular.” “This isn’t a heist. It’s a siege.” “We’ll be disguised.” “As what?” Molly slid over two photographs. Bill stared. “No.” “Yes.” “I won’t.” “You have the bone structure.” “I am not dressing as Princess Twinklefeather.” “You’re the right height.” “I’m six foot three.” “She’s a majestic princess.” “She has wings.” “They conceal the backpack.” “She has a wand.” “It’s a glass cutter.” “She has purple hair.” “It suits your winter complexion.” “What are you wearing?” “Bongo the Birthday Badger.” “That costume has pockets.” “And no dignity. We both sacrifice.” Bill considered this. “What about the magician?” “Busy at two-thirty. He makes a rabbit disappear.” “How?” “If I knew, we’d recruit him.” The waitress approached. Molly smiled until she passed. Bill whispered, “Timeline.” “Two o’clock, we arrive. Two-ten, balloon animals. Two-twenty, cake. Two-thirty, magician. During the rabbit applause, we move.” “Where?” “I crawl behind the sofa, cut the ribbon securing the gift table, and load the badger trolley.” “You have a trolley?” “Badgers carry supplies.” “Do they?” “Birthday badgers do.” “And me?” “You lead the children into the garden.” “With what?” “A conga line.” “I don’t conga.” “You will in wings.” “What if they refuse?” “They’re seven. Promise them treasure.” “But we’re taking the treasure.” “Promise them different treasure.” “What treasure?” Molly pushed a small tin across the table. Bill opened it. “Chocolate coins?” “Thirty-two.” “There are thirty-two children.” “I can count.” “What if one wants two?” “Then Princess Twinklefeather teaches a lesson about greed.” Bill shut the tin. “I feel the irony may crush me.” “You’ll survive.” “And the grandmother?” “Hardest obstacle.” “Armed?” “Knitting needles.” “Trained?” “Presumably.” “How do we neutralize her?” “We don’t. You charm her.” “In a princess dress?” “She likes confidence.” “How do you know?” “I dated her.” Bill blinked. “You dated Daisy’s grandmother?” “Briefly.” “When?” “Benidorm. Long story.” “Is that why we’re robbing this party?” “No.” “Molly.” “Mostly no.” “Molly.” “She kept my travel Scrabble.” “This is revenge?” “This is commerce with emotional seasoning.” A child at the next table pointed at the plans. “Are you stealing birthday presents?” Bill froze. Molly smiled. “Of course not.” “But you said you were.” “We’re actors rehearsing a play.” “What’s it called?” Bill cleared his throat. “The Badger and the Morally Conflicted Princess.” “Does it have songs?” “Unfortunately,” Molly said. “Sing one.” Bill stared at Molly. Molly stared back. “Princess, your public awaits.” Bill rose, wings imaginary but humiliation vivid. “Presents, presents, wrapped with bows—” “Louder,” said the child. “—into the badger’s cart they goes.” “Go,” Molly corrected. Bill glared. “Into the badger’s cart they go. When the tiny tyrants shout—” “Children,” Molly hissed. “—when the lovely children shout, Princess Bill will lead them out.” The café applauded. Molly folded the plan. “Excellent. Saturday?” Bill sat down. “I want sixty percent.” “Forty.” “Fifty, and I keep the wand.” “Done.” “And no conga.” “Impossible.” “Fine. But I lead.” “In six-inch heels?” Bill lifted his gravy-soaked tie. “Molly, I was born ready.”