Run: 2026-07-09-01KX4181N9KPMQDTJ2VV7127AK

Molly crouched behind the hedge, studying the birthday house through binoculars that had been designed for bird-watching and were therefore painted with tiny blue tits. Across the lawn, paper lanterns bobbed in the evening breeze, a clown-shaped piñata hung from an apple tree, and a handwritten sign announced: WELCOME, JEREMY! NO ADULTS IN THE PRESENT ROOM. Bill adjusted his black turtleneck, which was too warm for July and covered in cat hair. “The sign says no adults, Molly. We’re not adults. We’re professionals.” “We’re thirty-eight and you still owe me money from the museum job.” “That was an investment.” “You invested my money in a vending machine.” “It was a promising vending machine.” Behind them, their getaway vehicle—a battered ice-cream van borrowed from Bill’s cousin—gave a mournful chime. Molly flinched. The van had been silent all afternoon, but apparently it objected to crime after sunset. The plan was simple. They would enter through the back door during the magician’s performance, cross the kitchen, and remove every present from the dining room. Bill had constructed two enormous sacks from old theater curtains. Molly had brought disguises: one pirate hat, two rubber noses, and a plastic wand that squeaked whenever waved. The back door stood open. A trail of floury footprints led inside, suggesting either a careless cook or a remarkably clumsy ghost. Molly slipped across the grass. Bill followed, carrying the sacks and trying not to trip over the piñata’s dangling rope. “Remember,” Molly whispered, “we take the presents and leave. No cake, no balloons, no interacting with children.” “What if they ask us to dance?” “Especially then.” They reached the kitchen just as a burst of applause thundered from the sitting room. The magician shouted something about escaping from a locked box. Bill peered around the doorframe and saw a dozen children staring at a bearded man in sequins. On the table beside him sat a chocolate cake shaped like a rocket. “Molly,” Bill murmured, “the cake has a launch countdown.” “Focus.” They crept into the dining room. Gifts were stacked beneath a banner, wrapped in bright paper and decorated with bows. Bill opened his first sack. Molly began loading presents with the grim efficiency of a librarian reshelving books. A small cardboard box rattled. Bill froze. “That one’s alive.” “It’s probably a toy.” “It growled.” Molly snatched it from him and read the label. “To Jeremy, from Aunt Paula. Hamster.” “Do we steal the hamster?” “We steal everything.” The box rattled again, more indignantly. From the sitting room came a child’s voice. “Where’s Pickles?” Molly and Bill stared at each other. Somewhere beneath the table, the family dog began barking. Bill shoved the hamster into his coat, where it immediately started chewing his shirt. “New plan,” Molly said. “We leave the presents.” “And the hamster?” “We return the hamster.” They sprinted through the kitchen, pursued by the dog, three children, and the magician, who had escaped his box but not his handcuffs. Bill leapt into the ice-cream van. Molly slammed the door behind him. The engine coughed, the chime rang, and the van rolled directly into the hedge. From inside Bill’s coat, Pickles squeaked. “Successful?” he asked. Molly looked at the untouched presents, the collapsing hedge, and the hamster chewing through Bill’s collar. “Spectacularly,” she said.