Run: 2026-09-23-01M36WGCE67785J6P1TNQSB01Y

Molly slid the crayon map across the picnic table and tapped a stick-figure cake. “We go in when they sing. Everybody faces the candles. Nobody watches the gift table.” Bill squinted at the drawing. “That’s a dinosaur.” “That’s the bouncy castle. The presents are the pile of rectangles with bows. Try to keep up.” “I am keeping up. I’m also noting that our getaway vehicle is a wagon with one squeaky wheel and a sticker that says I Brake for Puppies.” “The wagon is perfect. Parents expect wagons at a party. They do not expect two adults dragging a laundry basket of Lego through a hedge.” Bill lowered his voice anyway, though the only witness was a pigeon. “And the children?” “We don’t touch the children. We don’t talk to the children. If a child asks who we are, you say you’re the present inspector and you failed the exam.” “I did fail an exam once.” “Focus. In, grab, out. No speeches. No samples. Last time you opened a box ‘to check quality’ and came out wearing a tiara.” “It was evidence.” “It was glitter in my car for a month.” Molly folded the map. “Timeline. They cut the cake at three. Chaos peaks at three-oh-five, when somebody cries because their slice is smaller. We move during the crying.” “What if nobody cries?” “It’s a children’s party, Bill. Somebody always cries. If not, you drop a juice box. Gently. On your own shoe.” He considered this with the seriousness of a man reviewing a vault schematic. “And if a clown sees us?” “Clowns see everything and remember nothing. Smile, wave, do not make eye contact with the shoes. Those shoes have opinions.” “What about the dog? The invitation said there might be a dog.” “The dog is named Sprinkles and it is afraid of balloons. We bring one balloon. We do not pop it near Sprinkles. We are thieves, not monsters.” Bill nodded, then frowned at the rectangles again. “All the presents. Even the weird ones. Even the socks.” “Especially the socks. Socks resell. Mystery boxes do not. If it’s labeled ‘Do Not Open Until You’re Older,’ we leave it. We are not starting a custody situation with a future teenager.” “Moral code. I respect it.” He tapped the cake. “What do I say if someone offers me pizza?” “You say no. You are working.” “One slice.” “No slice. Sticky fingers leave prints and also sauce.” They sat with that. A balloon popped somewhere beyond the hedge, and both of them flinched like professionals who had never been professionals. Molly checked her watch, which was a cartoon cat and therefore useless. “Positions in ten. You take the left side of the table. I take the right. If we get split up, rally point is the oak tree, code word is ‘pineapple,’ and you do not improvise a second code word because you think pineapple is ‘too obvious.’” “It is too obvious.” “Then nobody will believe we’re using it. That’s the point.” She stood, brushing grass off her knees. “Any last questions?” Bill stood too, wagon handle in his fist, dignity already departing. “Just one. If we pull this off, do we keep the good wrapping paper?” “Bill.” “For later.” “There is no later. There is cake, crying, and a wagon. Move.”