Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4066B99BSZ7K1X5MJ43TDD

Molly crouched behind Number Twelve’s hedge, studying the bungalow where balloons bobbed like unsupervised planets and children ricocheted around a glittering mountain of presents inside. “Three exits,” Bill whispered. “Front door, kitchen window, patio gate. The gate is guarded by a dog-shaped piñata, which seems festive, yet tactically alarming tonight.” Bill wore black trousers, a black turtleneck, and a plastic unicorn mask bought from a petrol station, giving him the appearance of an unusually troubled magician. “You insisted on the mask,” Molly said. “I wanted normal burglar hats, but you said children trust unicorns. Do they trust unicorns carrying crowbars generally?” Across the lawn, a banner announced HAPPY SIXTH BIRTHDAY, ARCHIE, although somebody had added a moustache to Archie’s photograph and decorated the letters with sausage rolls. “We are not stealing from Archie,” Bill said. “We are liberating presents from a distribution bottleneck. His parents have hidden everything in one room carelessly.” Molly opened her notebook, titled Crimes, Snacks, and Other Logistics, and reviewed the floor plan drawn on the back of a suspiciously damp takeaway menu. “According to my source, the adults are trapped in the kitchen discussing property prices. The children are hypnotized by cake. This is our window, Bill.” Her source was Archie’s cousin, who had accepted two fizzy cola bottles and promised operational intelligence, then immediately asked whether crime required a cape afterward. “Focus,” Molly said. “You take the kitchen window. I’ll enter through the garden shed, cross the conservatory, and disable the grown-ups with polite conversation expertly.” A shriek erupted indoors as the clown’s giraffe lost its head, gained three legs, and was declared a dinosaur by a jubilant committee of toddlers. “Your plan involves talking?” Bill asked. “Last time you talked, we escaped a museum robbery with annual memberships, matching tote bags, and a monthly newsletter.” Molly peered through the window. Wrapped parcels filled a table beneath a cardboard castle, guarded only by juice boxes and a stuffed crocodile wearing sunglasses. “Those are distractions,” Bill murmured. “Juice stains, crocodile bite, perhaps tiny surveillance cameras. Children are brutal professionals with sticky hands and no alibis at all.” From the front path came the clatter of arriving parents, each carrying a gift bag, a casserole dish, or the exhausted smile of social obligation. “New presents,” Molly said. “Excellent. We wait until the pile becomes absurd enough to require municipal planning permission, then we strike cleanly and silently tonight.” Bill unzipped his duffel bag, revealing rope, gloves, a torch, and twelve identical birthday cards reading Hope You Like Dinosaurs, From Someone Mysterious inside them. “Why cards?” Molly asked. “Because,” Bill said, “every successful heist needs misdirection. Also, I panicked near a stationery display and bought everything there twice over.” The patio gate squealed as Molly tested it. The piñata swung toward her, its painted eyes vacant, its papier-mâché grin possessing unsettling managerial confidence somehow. “Bill,” Molly whispered, “if that thing moves again, I am leaving. You can rob the party alone, wearing your unicorn face and carrying cards yourself.”