Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40V62DVH22NWRP3A2YM8X4

Molly spread the blueprint across the kitchen table, pinning its corners with four suspiciously expensive cupcakes. “The target is the birthday party at Number Twelve,” she whispered. “We enter through the conservatory, avoid the parents, bypass the dog, and reach the presents.” Bill peered at the map. “It’s a children’s party, Molly. The security system is probably a toddler with sticky fingers.” “Never underestimate a toddler. They’re unpredictable, heavily caffeinated, and immune to guilt.” Rain tapped the window while Molly adjusted her black woolly hat. Outside, Number Twelve glowed with balloons, paper streamers, and the unmistakable chaos of a dozen children consuming sugar at industrial scale. A cardboard pirate stood guard beside the front door, its sword raised in permanent accusation. Bill checked the tools in his satchel: lock picks, wire cutters, a flashlight, and three cheese sandwiches. “You packed lunch for a burglary?” “I packed lunch for any emergency.” “The emergency is that you’re hungry?” “The emergency is always that I’m hungry.” They crossed the garden beneath umbrellas, looking less like professional criminals than two damp librarians fleeing a book club. At the conservatory door, Molly produced a pick and worked the lock with delicate concentration. From inside came a shriek, followed by the crash of something expensive. Bill winced. “Perhaps we should wait until they’re calmer.” “They’re children. This is calm.” The lock clicked. Molly eased the door open, and they slipped inside behind a curtain decorated with smiling suns. The room smelled of icing, orange squash, and the faint desperation of adults who had hosted too many birthday parties. A woman in a paper crown hurried past carrying a tray of miniature sausages. “Smile,” Molly breathed. Bill smiled so broadly that he looked medically unwell. They reached the hallway. The presents sat beneath a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JAMIE!, piled in glittering paper beside a mountain of discarded wrapping. Molly pointed to the largest box. “Start with the valuables.” “How do you know that one’s valuable?” “It’s shaped like a tablet.” “It could be socks.” “No child receives socks in a box that large.” A small boy appeared at the end of the corridor, wearing a cape and holding a plastic telescope. “Who are you?” Molly crouched. “We’re the Present Inspectors.” The boy narrowed his eyes. “Are you villains?” “Only on weekdays,” Bill said. Molly elbowed him. The boy considered this. “Can you inspect my presents?” “Absolutely,” Molly said. “For safety.” He led them into the party room, where twenty children stared with the silent authority of a jury. Molly began examining boxes while Bill attempted to look official, writing notes on a napkin. “This one contains something fragile,” Molly announced. “It’s a football,” said a girl. “This one contains something electronic.” “It’s crayons,” said another. Bill opened a box and found a note reading: TO JAMIE, LOVE GRANDMA. He quickly closed it. Then Jamie pointed at the satchel. “What’s in there?” “Professional equipment,” Bill said. “Cheese sandwiches,” Molly corrected. The children gasped. Within seconds, the thieves were surrounded. Their burglary collapsed into an impromptu picnic, during which Molly surrendered the wire cutters and Bill surrendered both sandwiches. By the time the parents returned, every present remained untouched, but the criminals had been appointed honorary party entertainers. “Next time,” Molly muttered, balancing a plate of cake, “we rob somewhere without children.” Bill studied the room. “A library?” “Too many witnesses.” “A museum?” “Too many cameras.” The birthday clown handed them each a balloon animal. Bill sighed. “We’re losing our edge.” Molly bit into her cake. “Our edge was never very sharp.”