Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD4P9X6QDR26MWV6J4DMTFW

Molly unrolled a drawing of the Wobblebottoms’ backyard across Bill’s kitchen table, pinning one corner with a whisk and the other with a rubber duck wearing a balaclava. “Tell me again why the duck is incognito,” Bill said. “Because he’s got priors,” Molly said. Outside, actual children shrieked with joy beyond the hedge, the sound of innocence and too much sugar. On Molly’s map, the bouncy castle was marked FORTRESS OF SQUEAKS, the clown was WEATHER, and the gift table had been circled so many times the paper had given up and torn. “The plan,” Molly said, “is elegant.” “Last time you said elegant, we were chased by a goose into a baptistery.” “That goose had authority issues.” Bill leaned over the crayon arrows. “These kids are five. Five-year-olds can smell fear and unlicensed entertaining.” “Which is why we go as the entertainment.” Molly held up two costumes: a sequined fairy with a crowbar-shaped wand that was definitely just a wand, and a giraffe whose neck concealed nothing illegal whatsoever. “I’m not wearing hooves again,” Bill said. “You complained about the hooves, yet the hooves saved us from the swans.” “Different incident. Stop merging poultry.” Molly tapped the gift pile. “In, grab, out before the cake alibi collapses. No chatter with the birthday boy. He’s ruthless.” “He cried when a balloon followed him.” “Exactly. Unpredictable.” They rehearsed in whispers: Bill would juggle badly; Molly would announce a game called Everyone Close Your Eyes While Presents Migrate; no one would mention the word sack. The plan had no locks, no tools, no cruelty beyond themed deception, and three backup exits, all past a sprinkler named Dennis. Then the back gate creaked. A small girl in a paper crown stared at them, clutching a present wrapped in dinosaur paper. Her eyebrows asked a question more devastating than any detective. Molly froze. Bill’s giraffe head nodded by itself. “No,” Molly said. “Yes,” Bill said. The girl’s lip wobbled with the gravitational force of a collapsing star. Molly looked at the loot, at Bill, at the duck, who suddenly seemed to be judging her with tiny criminal eyes. “New plan,” Molly whispered. “We return everything and become excellent at balloon animals.” “I can make a sword,” Bill offered. “Make a conscience.” “I need longer balloons.” They spent the afternoon not stealing, which turned out to be a terrible heist and a suspiciously good party. When the mother thanked them for the moral theatre, Molly accepted juice with both hands like a reformed dragon. Bill found one present in his pouch anyway, left by error or duck, and walked it back through sprinkler Dennis while the children cheered. “Remind me,” Bill said, dripping, “why crime never pays.” “Because,” Molly said, “the witnesses are adorable and sticky.” The duck popped a balloon with its beak. Nobody trusted him after that.