Run: 2026-07-09-01KX41NWV0SZFRFNBY2PTV671B

Rain ticked against the bakery window while Molly spread a map across a table sticky with frosting. The map was actually a napkin, and the bakery was closed, but their operation had already suffered worse setbacks. Bill leaned over it, squinting at a red circle. “Is that the party house?” “No, that’s a jam stain.” “Then why did you circle it?” “I was feeling optimistic.” Across the street, the children’s party blazed with balloons, streamers, and the unmistakable glow of a room containing too many presents. A cardboard dragon guarded the front door. Beneath its painted claws sat a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes. Bill adjusted his borrowed bow tie. It was attached with a safety pin and currently strangling him. “We go in, take the presents, and leave before anyone notices.” Molly looked at him. “You said that last time.” “Last time, the presents noticed.” “They were inanimate.” “They had bells on them. Very judgmental bells.” A burst of laughter came from the house. Someone inside began singing “Happy Birthday” at a pitch usually reserved for emergency sirens. Molly checked the clock, then tucked the napkin into her coat. “The plan is simple,” she said. “We enter as entertainers, perform the routine, collect the gifts during the applause, and exit through the side gate.” “What routine?” “The one where you juggle.” “I can’t juggle.” “You can toss three objects into the air.” “I can toss three objects into the air separately.” “That’s nearly juggling.” “It’s nearly littering.” Molly produced three rubber ducks from her handbag. One wore a tiny crown. “Where did you get those?” “Preparedness.” “Why is one dressed as royalty?” “Preparedness with ambition.” They crossed the street and approached the door. Before Molly could knock, it opened, revealing a woman wearing a paper crown and the expression of someone who had already endured four hours of sugar-fueled negotiations. “Are you the surprise entertainers?” she asked. Molly smiled broadly. “Absolutely.” Bill raised one duck. “We’re famous.” The hostess glanced at the duck. “For what?” “Swimming,” Bill said. Inside, the party thundered around them. Children chased one another beneath a canopy of balloons while adults guarded paper plates and looked spiritually exhausted. Molly guided Bill toward the gift pile, but a small boy intercepted them. “Can you make balloon animals?” “Of course,” Molly said. Bill whispered, “Can you?” “Not relevant.” She grabbed a balloon, twisted it twice, and produced something resembling a frightened intestine. The children cheered anyway. Bill began juggling the ducks. One struck a lampshade, another landed in the punch, and the crowned duck vanished beneath a sofa. During the uproar, Molly lifted a present. Then she paused. The box rattled. “Bill,” she murmured, “this one is alive.” A kitten meowed. Bill stared at the gift, horrified. “We are not stealing a kitten.” “I know.” “Good.” Molly returned the box and selected a smaller one. A child pointed. “Hey! That’s my present!” Molly froze. Bill slowly lowered the ducks. The room went silent. Molly sighed and handed it back. “We’re terrible criminals.” Bill nodded. “But excellent entertainers.” The hostess marched toward them. Molly grabbed his sleeve. “Run.” They sprinted out, leaving the presents untouched, three ducks behind, and the kitten apparently delighted with its dramatic entrance. Outside, Bill collapsed against the bakery wall. “Next time,” he panted, “we steal from adults.” Molly considered this. “Adults don’t get balloon animals.” “Then we steal balloons.” “Now you’re thinking like a professional.”