Run: 2026-09-23-01M36R1NP7RJM858P136NMPMCV

Molly spread a crumpled map across the van’s dashboard, pinning its corners with a thermos, a stale muffin, and Bill’s dented emergency mustache wax tin. “Bill, presents are inside the community hall, guarded by a clown, two parents, and a balloon shaped like a tax auditor. Excessive for a six-year-old.” Bill leaned over Molly’s sketch of the hall, squinting. It showed a door, a window, and something labeled “possibly cake” in the far back corner. “Molly, we enter through the kitchen. Every party has a kitchen, and every kitchen has a door propped open by somebody carrying frosting at speed.” Molly tapped a blue crayon route that crossed the parking lot, skirted a hedge, and ended at a rectangle she had drawn with suspicious confidence. “That rectangle is the kitchen?” “It was before the map got damp.” “From what?” “Your muffin, apparently, has the structural integrity of soup.” Across the street, the party hall glowed with paper stars. A sign announced NED’S SIXTH BIRTHDAY, though someone had changed the N to an H. “Hed’s birthday. Sounds like a sheep’s party. Bill, adjust your tie; you can blend in. Tell them you sold raffle tickets at a wool convention.” He wore a paper crown from an earlier operation, though the glitter had migrated into his eyebrows, making him look permanently surprised and strangely regal. “Presents are our target. Not cake, not piñata, and definitely not children.” “I hadn’t listed them, Molly; I meant clown as a target, strictly speaking.” Molly produced two empty tote bags. One read LIBRARY BOOKS; the other read I’M WITH THE BAND, despite neither thief knowing an instrument at all. “We lift every wrapped box and leave before anyone notices.” “What if a child notices?” “Then we compliment the wrapping with absolutely sincere admiration, naturally.” Bill tested the van’s side door. It squealed like a haunted kettle, so Molly shut it before the neighborhood cats could assemble outside for judgment. “We need a distraction. I could juggle, Molly, confidently.” “Can you juggle?” “No, but the children will be impressed by my confidence and brave posture.” Molly glanced at the party’s window, where a small face appeared, vanished, then reappeared wearing a paper mustache and a serious expression of quiet judgment. “That child has spotted us.” “Impossible. He’s six.” “Six-year-olds are observant. They once caught me hiding broccoli in my napkin during family dinner last Sunday.” Bill lowered himself behind the dashboard. His crown slipped over his eyes, turning his whispered strategy into a muffled speech addressed to his own lap. “New plan: Molly and I enter as entertainers, perform a trick, and make the presents disappear.” “Bill, that is the original plan with louder applause.” Molly folded the map and tucked it away. From the hall came a chorus singing off-key, followed by a tremendous crash and adult applause somewhere. “The children have started the piñata. Operation Gift Grab is canceled.” “Because of morals?” “Because, Bill, we hate crowds, balloons, and screaming more than bills.”