Run: 2026-09-10-01M25DZ029KXJYC3D16KTVMNM4

Molly spread the crayon-smeared birthday invitation across the diner table. Bill leaned closer, smelling of varnish and poor decisions. The Pemberton twins were turning seven, which meant a bouncy castle, a magician who loathed children, and a sunroom stacked with presents. They would pose as balloon artists, grab everything, and vanish before cake. "Balloon artists?" Bill said. "I can't tie my shoes." "You wear velcro," Molly said. "That's why you're the distraction." "Last time I distracted a Rottweiler and lost a trouser leg." "That was a chihuahua." "It had the soul of a Rottweiler." Molly tapped the invitation. The party began at two. Parents would drink mimosas and ignore everything. The magician's act lasted twenty minutes. That left twelve minutes to clear the sunroom before the twins demanded presents. The house sat behind a hedge shaped like a dinosaur, which Molly considered an insult to dinosaurs. The security system was ancient, the kind that beeped when you opened a window and then apologized. Bill had already stolen the manual, though he couldn't read it because it was in French and also on fire. "Twelve minutes for forty presents?" Bill said. "Forty-two. I counted the RSVPs." "You counted seven-year-olds?" "One sent a drawing of a pony. Very detailed." Bill rubbed his chin. The sunroom had French doors, a birdhouse camera, and a golden retriever named Sir Barksalot who feared umbrellas. Bill would open one. The dog would flee. Molly would cut the camera. Then they would stack gifts in a laundry cart disguised as diaper delivery. The cart had a squeaky wheel, but Bill planned to disguise that by humming the birthday song continuously. Molly said that was the worst plan she had ever heard, which from her was almost a compliment. "Diapers?" Bill said. "No one questions diapers at a children's party." "I question diapers." "You once used one as a pillow." "It was a desperate time." They rehearsed twice. Bill practiced saying "Happy birthday, small people" without sounding like a man who fenced stolen scooters. Molly twisted a napkin into a giraffe. It looked like a snake having a crisis. Outside, a pigeon watched them with the flat, judgmental stare of a creature that had never committed a felony. "What if the magician sees us?" Bill said. "He won't. Magicians only notice their own hands." "And the children?" "Children are perfect witnesses. Nobody believes them." Bill nodded slowly. "That's dark, Molly." "That's logistics." The waitress brought coffees and fries. Molly paid with exact change from a wallet found in a parked stroller. Bill dipped a fry in ketchup and frowned. The diner radio played a cheerful song about sharing, which felt personally offensive. Molly folded the napkin map into a paper airplane and threw it at Bill. It hit him in the eye. She called that reflexes. He called it friendship. "You missed," Bill said. "I never miss," Molly said. "So we're stealing from kids." "We're redistributing joy. To us." "Robin Hood." "Robin Hood with a laundry cart." Bill raised his coffee. "To forty-two presents and no chihuahuas." Molly clinked her mug against his. "To getting out before the piñata."