Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NQ2SVBTXN7JZSK0BTCVW8

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the diner table. It was mostly napkin, with a crayon castle in one corner and a coffee stain where the cake was supposed to be. “Tonight,” she whispered, “we enter the party, collect every present, and leave before anyone notices.” Bill studied the map. “This is a drawing of a dragon.” “It’s the bouncy castle.” “Then why does it have teeth?” “Budget cuts.” Outside, rain tapped the windows. Inside, the diner’s jukebox played a love song with the emotional conviction of a washing machine. Molly wore a black turtleneck, gloves, and a tiny paper crown. Bill wore a raincoat and carried a gift bag that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TYLER! in cheerful blue letters. “Why are you dressed like a burglar?” Bill asked. “Because we’re burglars.” “Why am I dressed like a birthday guest?” “Because you’re the distraction.” “I’m forty-seven. I can’t pass for a child.” “You’re not supposed to pass for a child. You’re supposed to look like someone’s uncle who brought the wrong present.” Bill glanced at the bag. “I brought the right present. It’s just full of bricks.” “Then you brought the wrong present very convincingly.” Molly tapped the map. The party was at a rented hall down the street, where a banner announced TYLER’S SIXTH BIRTHDAY in letters large enough to be read from space. Through the front windows, she could see balloons bobbing above a crowd of small children. A table sagged under wrapped gifts. Bill followed her gaze. “There must be thirty presents.” “Thirty-two,” Molly said. “I counted.” “You counted presents through a window?” “I’m good with numbers.” “You once tried to split a sandwich three ways between two people.” “That was a complicated sandwich.” A burst of shrieking laughter came from the hall. Bill shifted in his seat. “Molly, these are children’s presents.” “Exactly. Nobody suspects a sophisticated operation at a six-year-old’s party.” “Nobody suspects anything at a six-year-old’s party. They’re busy preventing someone from eating a crayon.” Molly folded the map. “We go in, blend with the adults, lift the gifts, and vanish.” “What if someone asks who we are?” “We say we’re Tyler’s cousins.” “What if Tyler asks?” “We say we’re his cousins from the future.” Bill looked at the party again. A little girl had climbed onto a chair and was conducting the room with a breadstick. “I’m not sure I can steal a present from someone who still thinks breadsticks have authority.” Molly’s expression softened, just a fraction. Then she pulled the crown off her head and set it on the table. “Fine,” she said. “We take the cake.” “The cake is for the children.” “Then we take the balloons.” “They’re for the children too.” “Bill, everything at a children’s party is for children.” “Right. That’s what makes it a children’s party.” They sat in silence, listening to the jukebox finish its song. Molly sighed, retrieved the map, and turned it over. On the blank side, she drew a small box labeled DONATIONS. “We could help carry the presents to the car,” she said. “The organizer said they’re taking them to the children’s ward afterward.” Bill stood. “That sounds less like a heist and more like volunteering.” “Don’t use that word. It makes my gloves itch.” They walked toward the hall. Bill carried the gift bag of bricks. Molly wore the paper crown. At the door, a child handed her a balloon. She accepted it gravely. “Excellent,” she said. “Our first acquisition.” “Is it stolen?” Bill asked. “No,” said Molly. “It’s a gift.” Bill nodded. “We’re going to need a bigger operation.”