Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40WVARJY5B0M8ZGAWGVXT0

Molly spread the crayon map across the café table, pinning its corners with two sugar bowls and a scone dense enough to stop a bullet. Bill squinted at it. “Is that a castle?” “It’s a bouncy castle.” “It has battlements.” “They’re inflatable.” “Still formidable.” Around them, spoons clinked, milk steamed, and nobody noticed two thieves conducting surveillance over tea. Molly tapped a purple rectangle labeled PREZZIE ZONE in backward letters. “The presents are here,” she said. “Beside the magician’s table.” “Magician?” “Local amateur. Mostly scarves and rabbits.” “Rabbits are unpredictable.” “So are you, but I brought you.” Bill studied the map. It had been drawn by Molly’s eight-year-old informant, a child who accepted payment exclusively in stickers. The garden belonged to the Merriweathers, whose daughter’s birthday was Saturday. Twenty children had been invited. Molly estimated thirty-seven presents, allowing for divorced parents and competitive grandparents. “We enter disguised as entertainers,” she said. “Excellent. I’ll be the brooding juggler.” “You can’t juggle.” “That’s why I brood.” “You’re the clown.” Bill recoiled so sharply he upset the pepper. “Absolutely not.” “You have the trousers.” “Those are driving trousers.” “They have yellow ducks on them.” “For visibility.” Molly unfolded a second document: the schedule. At two, guests arrived. At two-fifteen, musical statues. At two-thirty, cake. At two-forty-five, a sugar-fuelled collapse of civilization. Their escape window opened at three. Bill traced the proposed route from the gift table, through the kitchen, into the alley where their van would wait. “What about parents?” “Distracted by prosecco.” “The children?” “Distracted by everything.” “The magician?” Molly paused. “We distract him.” “How?” “You volunteer for a trick.” “Last time I volunteered, I lost a watch.” “You stole that watch.” “Yes, and he stole it back. Humiliating.” A waitress approached. Molly flipped the map over, revealing a maze completed in green crayon. The waitress collected their cups and left with the expression of someone wisely declining involvement. Molly lowered her voice. “At three, I trigger the piñata.” “What does that mean?” “I hit it.” “That’s not triggering. That’s hitting.” “Semantics. While everyone dives for sweets, you load the presents into the laundry cart.” “Why is there a laundry cart?” “We bring one.” “Then it’s just a cart.” “We write LAUNDRY on it.” Bill nodded, reassured by the professionalism. Outside, a bus groaned past. The scone shifted, and the map rolled itself into a tube. “One concern,” Bill said. “Stealing from children feels morally murky.” “We’re thieves. Morally murky is our brand.” “But birthdays are sacred.” Molly sighed and produced the guest list. “The presents are all for Sebastian Merriweather.” “I thought it was his sister’s party.” “It is.” Bill stared at the list, then grinned. Every gift tag bore Sebastian’s name, thanks to the family’s notoriously careless online registry. “So we’re correcting an administrative error?” “Exactly.” “Robin Hood.” “Robin Hood-adjacent.” They shook hands over the bulletproof scone. Behind them, the café noticeboard displayed a poster for Saturday’s party. Beneath it, in glittering letters, someone had added: SECURITY PROVIDED BY SEBASTIAN MERRIWEATHER, AGE TEN. Bill read it twice. “Rabbits,” he murmured, “were the least of our problems.”