Run: 2026-07-09-01KX41E4ZSCSSRSD5G3Q0WEH7D

Molly spread the crayon map across the café table and pinned its corners with sugar bowls. Bill stared at the purple square labeled CASTLE, the green blob labeled DRAGON, and the ominous black circle labeled AUNT DEBORAH. “You got this from our inside source?” “Birthday girl. Age six. Weakness: stickers.” “You bribed a child?” “I conducted intelligence using unicorn decals.” Bill tapped the black circle. “Who’s Aunt Deborah?” “Security. Former hockey goalie. Current headmistress.” “Armed?” “Handbag.” Bill shuddered. Last Christmas, an elderly woman’s handbag had given him a concussion and a travel-size bottle of lavender lotion. Outside, rain glazed the windows. Molly rotated the map and revealed the target: a mountain of presents in the community hall’s cloakroom, guarded by parents, entertainers, and one deeply suspicious rabbit. “The rabbit’s real?” “Costume. Probably.” “Probably?” “The ears moved separately.” Bill sipped his tea. “I dislike adaptive surveillance.” Their plan required disguises. Molly produced two plastic tubs from beneath the table. One contained a magician’s cape, wand, and false moustache. The other contained an enormous yellow chicken suit. “I’m the magician,” Bill said. “You can’t do magic.” “I once made twelve thousand pounds disappear.” “That was taxes.” “Still baffled everyone.” Molly pushed the chicken tub toward him. “You’re poultry.” “I have dignity.” “You pawned it in Leeds.” “That was a watch.” “Same sentimental value.” Bill lifted the chicken head. Its eyes were bright, round, and accusatory. A red felt comb drooped like a defeated flag. “What are you wearing?” “Party princess.” “You’re breaking in as royalty?” “Children trust princesses.” “Children question princesses. They’ll demand songs.” “I can sing.” “You were banned from karaoke.” “For starting a fire.” “With your voice.” Molly folded her arms. Around them, spoons clinked and milk hissed. At the next table, a toddler watched Bill hold the chicken head and began to cry. “The schedule,” Molly said. “Three o’clock, cake. Three-ten, magician. Three-twenty, screaming because the magician’s terrible. During the confusion, we enter the cloakroom.” “As?” “Emergency entertainment.” “And remove forty presents unnoticed?” “Not remove. Relocate.” “To our van.” “Mobile redistribution center.” Bill peered at the map. “Exit?” “Kitchen door.” “Obstacle?” “Bouncy castle compressor.” “Can we switch it off?” “Not unless you want twenty children rapidly descending.” “Could be a distraction.” “Could be manslaughter by princess.” The café door opened, blowing rain and a paper napkin across their plans. Molly caught the map. Bill caught the moustache in his tea. “Fine,” he said. “Suppose we reach the van. What if they follow?” “We release the balloons.” “What balloons?” “Two hundred helium balloons in the van.” Bill blinked. “With forty presents?” “Yes.” “Is the van enormous?” “No.” They contemplated this. “You’ve filled our getaway vehicle with balloons?” “They’re camouflage.” “For what, air?” “For the presents.” “How do we drive?” “Very festively.” The toddler stopped crying and pointed. Bill had accidentally stuck the wet moustache to the chicken’s beak. Molly checked her watch, gathered the map, and stood. “Party starts in twenty minutes.” Bill lowered the chicken head over his face. His voice emerged muffled and tragic. “One question.” “What?” “Are we villains?” “We’re thieves stealing toys from children.” “So yes.” “Professionally, yes.” He rose, feathers brushing a waiter’s tray. “And morally?” Molly considered the unicorn stickers in her pocket. “Let’s leave the bicycles.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Even the red one?” “Especially the red one.” “Why?” “It has a bell. Too traceable.” Together they waddled into the rain.