Run: 2026-07-09-01KX41DX595H2E7M8CKC6Z907H

Molly spread the crayon map across the café table. “Here’s the target: sixteenth birthday party, Saturday, three o’clock.” “Sixteenth?” “Sixth. The invitation has glitter over the number.” “Much better. Teenagers can identify suspects.” “Children can identify suspects too, Bill.” “Not if we wear disguises.” “You suggested going as two burglars.” “No child expects an honest disguise.” Molly tapped the map. “Thirty guests, one entertainer, three adults, and a mountain of presents beside the bouncy castle.” “What kind of entertainer?” “A magician.” Bill paled. “Professional rivalry.” “You’re not a magician.” “I made your wallet disappear.” “You dropped it in the soup.” “It remained undiscovered for eight minutes.” A waiter glanced toward them. Molly lowered her voice. “We enter through the garden gate at three-fifteen, during musical statues.” “Why musical statues?” “Everyone freezes.” “That isn’t legally binding.” “It creates a distraction. We pose as delivery people, load the gifts into the van, and leave.” “What are we delivering?” “A pony.” “You bought a pony?” “No. The box says PONY.” “Children understand boxes, Molly. They’ll notice it doesn’t neigh.” “You’ll neigh.” Bill considered this. “I have range.” “You have sinus trouble.” “Authenticity.” Molly drew an arrow in purple crayon. “The presents are here. The van is here.” “Why is the van in the duck pond?” “That’s a blue parking space.” “It has a duck.” “The child who drew this took artistic liberties.” “Who drew it?” “The birthday boy.” “You interrogated him?” “I asked him to draw his house.” “That’s disturbingly efficient.” “I gave him a biscuit.” “That’s bribery.” “It was chocolate.” “Aggravated bribery.” Molly folded the map. “At three-twenty, we move.” “What if the magician sees us?” “You compliment his wand.” “That’ll only make him suspicious.” “Then ask for his card.” “Nobody has ever asked for a magician’s card.” “Exactly. He’ll be emotional.” “And the parents?” “You tell them the pony requires a signature.” “Whose?” “Mr. Sprinkles.” “The pony is called Mr. Sprinkles?” “The delivery company is called Mr. Sprinkles.” “That’s worse.” “It’s a children’s party. Everything is called Mr. Sprinkles.” Bill sipped his coffee. “What’s our escape route?” “Back gate, alley, van.” “Simple.” “Very.” “So why have you drawn a tunnel?” “That’s the birthday cake.” “It has railway tracks.” “Candles.” “And this skull?” “Fondant pirate.” “Are you certain this map is useful?” “No.” “Good. I distrust overconfidence.” Molly leaned closer. “One complication: costumes are mandatory.” “What are we wearing?” “I’m a princess.” “Predictable.” “You’re a giraffe.” Bill stared at her. “A giraffe cannot carry presents inconspicuously.” “A giraffe can carry anything. Nobody questions a giraffe.” “I’ll need peripheral clearance.” “You’ll need dignity clearance.” “What if my neck hits the doorframe?” “Duck.” “Giraffes don’t duck.” “Then evolve.” Bill nodded solemnly. “How many presents?” “Forty-two.” “Any bicycles?” “One.” “I refuse to steal a bicycle from a six-year-old.” Molly blinked. “Moral objection?” “Assembly required.” “We take sealed boxes only.” “And cake?” “We’re thieves, not monsters. We leave the cake.” “Good.” “We take one slice.” “Professional tax?” “Exactly.” Bill raised his cup. “To Mr. Sprinkles.” Molly clinked hers against it. “May he neigh convincingly.” Behind them, the waiter cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Are you planning to rob my son’s party?” Molly smiled. “No.” Bill said, “We’re magicians.” The waiter pointed to the door. Bill stood. “See? Professional rivalry.”