Run: 2026-07-09-01KX418SZH4CMGE1W1H4HASECM

Molly spread a crayon map across the bonnet of their stolen ice-cream van. Rain pattered on the paper, making the purple castle bleed into the labelled duck pond. “Right,” she said. “The birthday party begins at two. Twenty children, twelve adults, one magician, and a mountain of presents.” “Any guards?” “Three grandmothers.” Bill paled. “Professional grandmothers?” “One has a handbag full of boiled sweets. Assume she’s armed.” “We should abort.” “We are not aborting. Do you know what’s inside those presents?” “Toys?” “Premium toys, Bill. Remote-control cars. Talking dinosaurs. Possibly a chemistry set.” “I had a chemistry set once.” “You drank the litmus solution.” “It looked like raspberry cordial.” “It was blue.” “I was an adventurous child.” Molly pinned the map down with a plastic spoon. The van’s loudspeaker crackled overhead, then played three mournful notes of “Greensleeves.” “Here’s the plan. We enter disguised as entertainers, mingle naturally, locate the gift table, and remove the merchandise.” “What entertainers?” “Balloon sculptors.” “I can’t sculpt balloons.” “You made a snake yesterday.” “That was meant to be a giraffe.” “Children lack critical standards.” Bill opened a cardboard box. Balloons, wigs, face paint, and two enormous red shoes spilled onto the pavement. “Why are the shoes wet?” “Operational mystery.” “And what’s our exit strategy?” “We load the presents into the van and drive away.” “While playing ‘Greensleeves’?” “It lowers suspicion.” “It announces ice cream.” “Exactly. Everyone will chase us, but they’ll bring money.” Bill considered this. “That’s either brilliant or the reason we’ve been arrested six times.” “Five.” “You’re forgetting the aquarium.” “The octopus refused to testify.” At two fifteen, they crept through the garden gate wearing rainbow wigs and striped waistcoats. Beyond the hedge, children thundered around a bouncy castle while adults clustered near a table of sandwiches. Bill tugged Molly’s sleeve. “Problem.” “What?” “There’s already a balloon sculptor.” Molly peered across the lawn. A cheerful man in yellow dungarees twisted a balloon into a flawless poodle. “Right. New identities. We’re his assistants.” “He’s never met us.” “Entertainers are famously disorganised.” The balloon sculptor spotted them and frowned. “He’s coming over,” Bill whispered. “Look busy.” Bill inflated a balloon. It shot from his hands, screamed across the garden, and landed in the punch bowl. “Busier than that.” “I panic creatively.” Molly seized two gift bags from the table and thrust them at him. “Carry these casually.” “They say ‘Happy Seventh Birthday, Lucy.’” “So?” “So Lucy is staring at me.” “Smile.” Bill smiled. Lucy began to cry. “That was your friendly smile?” “I have a dishonest face.” “Walk toward the van.” “Casually?” “Very casually.” They took three steps. A grandmother rose from her chair, handbag swinging. “She’s moving to intercept,” Bill said. “Deploy distraction.” Bill grabbed a balloon and twisted furiously. “What are you making?” “A defensive giraffe.” The balloon exploded. Every face turned toward them. Molly dropped the bags. “Revised plan,” she said. “Run?” “Run.” They vaulted the hedge, lost both wigs, and scrambled into the van. Molly started the engine. “Greensleeves” blared triumphantly. Bill looked down. A small wrapped box had somehow remained tucked beneath his arm. “We got one!” Molly tore the paper open at a red light. Inside was a glitter-covered book titled My First Guide to Honesty. Bill sighed. “Do you think it comes with pictures?” “Good news,” Molly said. “It comes with stickers.” Behind them, three grandmothers rounded the corner at speed. “Drive.” “I am driving.” “Drive less educationally.”