Run: 2026-07-09-01KX407RG4PC1WP8T73QS5AFPN

Molly spread a crayon map across the café table, pinning its corners with sugar shakers. Purple arrows led through a drawing of a castle, past six stick-figure guards, and into a room labeled PREZZIES!!! in glitter pen. Bill stared at it. “This is your plan?” “This is intelligence,” Molly said. “Acquired from an inside source.” “Your niece drew it.” “My niece attended a party there Tuesday. She’s practically a veteran.” Outside, rain polished the street. Inside, the espresso machine hissed like an accomplice with asthma. Molly tapped the castle. “Saturday, fourteen hundred hours. Princess Petunia’s Party Palace. Twenty children, thirty-two presents, one exhausted magician.” “We’re robbing children?” “We’re redistributing toys to ourselves.” “I don’t want a xylophone.” “Nobody wants a xylophone. That’s why they’re valuable.” Bill examined the map. The palace had battlements, two slides, and what appeared to be a dragon wearing ballet shoes. “What’s this?” “Security.” “That’s a dinosaur.” “Costumed employee. Name: Gavin. Weakness: hay fever.” “You investigated his allergies?” “I followed him to a pharmacy.” “That’s stalking.” “In our profession, it’s networking.” Molly produced two laminated badges: PARTY SAFETY INSPECTOR and JUNIOR PARTY SAFETY INSPECTOR. “Why am I junior?” “Because you once got trapped inside a revolving door.” “It changed direction.” “Doors don’t do that, Bill.” “This one had ambition.” Their entrance, Molly explained, would coincide with the birthday song. Bill would inspect the ball pit while she located the gift room. At precisely two fifteen, he would trigger the diversion. Bill lowered his voice. “What diversion?” “You release the bees.” He froze. “What bees?” “The imaginary bees.” “You want me to shout ‘bees’?” “No. Too obvious. You shout, ‘Remain calm, but the bees have unionized.’ Panic needs detail.” A waitress set down their coffees and glanced at the map. Molly covered the glittering treasure chamber with her hand. Once the waitress left, Bill leaned closer. “How do we move thirty-two presents?” “Laundry cart.” “At a castle?” “Royal laundry cart.” “And if someone asks questions?” Molly slid him a second badge: ROYAL LAUNDRY. Bill frowned. “Your forgery strategy is mostly lamination.” “People trust shiny things.” On Saturday, they arrived dressed in yellow safety vests over medieval tunics. The lobby churned with sugar-fueled knights and shrieking fairies. A teenage receptionist barely looked up before waving them through. Molly whispered, “Shiny things.” They passed Gavin the Dragon, who sneezed inside his foam head and walked into a decorative well. Beyond him stood the gift room, unguarded and mountainously bright. Bill’s face softened. “That one’s shaped like a bicycle.” “Focus.” A little girl in a tiara appeared behind them. “Are you robbers?” she asked. Molly crouched. “We’re inspectors.” The girl pointed at their cart. “That says laundry.” “We inspect laundry.” “With presents?” Bill sighed. “The bees unionized.” The girl considered this, then nodded gravely. “Good. They work hard.” She helped them load the cart, identifying which parcels contained books, dolls, and one suspiciously heavy chemistry set. Molly avoided those and selected only flashy boxes, because criminals, like magpies, have standards. They reached the exit just as the birthday song began. Bill pushed faster. The cart struck a drawbridge ramp, launched magnificently, and overturned in the lobby. Thirty-two presents burst open. Socks. Every box contained socks. The receptionist applauded. Parents cheered. A banner unfurled overhead: CHARITY SOCK DRIVE! Molly lay beneath a cascade of tiny argyle. Bill held up a sparkly pair. “Valuable?” “Extremely,” Molly said. “They match your badge.”