Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD4S1FSR18TCNREJ05WGEHZ

The van smelled of cheese puffs and poor decisions. Molly spread their map across the steering wheel, though it was mostly a napkin with a drawing of a house, a cake, and several arrows pointing at a stick figure labeled BIRTHDAY GREMLIN. Bill squinted. “Is the gremlin hostile?” “That’s Timmy,” Molly said. “Age six. Likes dinosaurs. Hates bedtime.” “Then we negotiate.” “We are not negotiating with a six-year-old.” “Molly, every empire falls because somebody underestimated a six-year-old.” She tapped the napkin. Outside, the party thumped with off-key singing and the shriek of balloons being murdered by chairs. Through the window they could see paper hats bobbing like a fleet of tiny doomed ships. “Plan,” Molly said. “We slip in during musical statues. Everybody freezes. We don’t. We take presents. We leave.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Flawless. What if somebody looks at us?” “Freeze harder.” “Right. Emotionally or physically?” “Both.” He peeled the wrapper from a cheese puff with the delicacy of a safecracker. “And the clown?” Molly went still. “What clown?” A honk came from the garden. Then another, closer, as if the first honk had called for backup. Bill slowly turned the rear-view mirror. A face painted like a deranged sunrise appeared in it. Molly whispered, “Drive.” “We’re parked.” “Then parked menacingly.” The clown knocked on the window. Bill rolled it down two inches, which somehow made the clown bigger. “Oh no,” said the clown. “Oh yes,” said Bill. Molly leaned over. “We’re from the Present Inspection Bureau.” The clown frowned. “Is that real?” “It’s new,” Molly said. “Very new,” Bill added. “Still wet.” The clown’s nose squeaked as he considered this. Somewhere inside, a child screamed, “PASS THE PARCEL,” and forty tiny feet stampeded like wildebeest in party shoes. Molly gripped the dashboard. “Bill, the presents are in the lounge.” “Then we lounge adjacent.” “We go in, compliment the cake, locate the gifts, create a diversion, and exit with dignity.” “What sort of diversion?” “You juggle.” “I can’t juggle.” “Perfect. Nobody suspects failure.” The clown opened the van door. “You lot coming in? Only it’s jelly time.” Molly and Bill looked at each other. Years of crime had prepared them for lasers, dogs, lasers on dogs, and one memorable incident involving a haunted duvet. They had not prepared for jelly. Bill cleared his throat. “We have a warrant.” “For jelly?” “Surprise jelly warrant.” Inside, the table sagged under wrapped boxes: dinosaurs, dolls, a science kit already leaking glitter, a drum set somebody would regret by Tuesday. Molly’s hand hovered over a silver package shaped like greed. Then Timmy appeared, solemn as a judge, holding out a paper plate. “You can have cake,” he said, “if you didn’t come to steal.” Molly froze. Bill froze harder, emotionally and physically. “Us?” Molly said. “Never.” “Good,” said Timmy. “Because Aunt Carol bites.” From the kitchen came a growl that was almost certainly Aunt Carol. Bill took the cake. “New plan.” Molly sighed, already reaching for napkins. “We steal nothing, eat quickly, and leave before musical chairs.” “And the presents?” Timmy pointed at Aunt Carol, who was guarding them with a spoon. Bill nodded. “Retirement sounds nice.”