Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HN6FV0WF2QA8YEF8K4M3F

Molly spread a crayon drawing across the café table. It showed a castle, twelve stick figures, and a dog the size of the moon. “That’s the floor plan,” she said. Bill studied it. “Why is the kitchen wearing a crown?” “That’s the castle.” “And the thing labeled KITCHEN?” “The kitchen. Keep up.” Bill turned the paper sideways. “Who drew this?” “My nephew. He’s attending the party.” “We’re using intelligence from a six-year-old?” “He’s seven. His birthday was in March.” “Sorry. A seasoned operative.” Molly tapped the crown. “Party starts at two. We arrive at two fifteen, when everyone’s distracted by the magician.” “What magician?” “The invitation says ‘magical entertainment.’” “That could mean anything. At my cousin’s wedding, it meant a chocolate fountain.” “Was it magical?” “It broke down and sprayed the vicar. So yes.” A waitress passed their table. Molly folded the drawing beneath her menu. Bill lowered his voice. “Let’s discuss the presents. How many?” “Twenty, maybe thirty.” “That’s a lot to carry.” “Which is why we need a disguise.” Bill brightened. “I still have the gorilla suit.” “No.” “It’s convincing.” “It has a zip across the forehead and smells like onions.” “Gorillas eat onions.” “Not at children’s parties. We’re going as entertainers. You’ll make balloon animals.” “I can’t.” “You made one last week.” “That was a balloon. It was shaped like a balloon.” “Call it a snake.” “What will you do?” “Face painting.” “You can’t paint.” “I can draw a cat.” “You can draw whiskers. Last time, you put them on my forehead.” “You kept moving.” “You told me to sneeze.” The waitress returned with two coffees. Bill waited until she left, then leaned closer. “Why are we stealing presents from children, exactly?” Molly looked offended. “We’re stealing presents from one child. The others brought them.” “That clears it up completely.” “And we’re not keeping them. Her father owes my sister four thousand pounds.” “So this is debt collection?” “Technically. We’ll return everything when he pays.” “What if there’s a bicycle?” “Then we’ll return it with the bell intact. I’m not a monster.” Bill stirred his coffee. “Your sister knows about this?” “No. She suggested a polite letter.” “A radical approach.” “Her last polite letter included six exclamation marks and a photograph of her looking disappointed. He framed it.” Bill glanced at the drawing again. “What’s the enormous dog?” “That’s Princess.” “Princess has eight legs.” “My nephew ran out of room for her tail.” A phone buzzed. Molly read the message and went still. “What?” Bill asked. “The party’s been moved.” “Where?” “My sister’s house. The birthday girl has chickenpox.” “So there won’t be a party?” “There will. Small one. Family only.” Bill nudged the drawing back to her. “We could visit your sister instead. Take cake. Write another letter.” Molly considered this. “With seven exclamation marks?” “Eight. We’re professionals.” She folded the floor plan into her pocket. “Fine. But I’m bringing the balloons.” “Good. Your nephew deserves a snake.” “And you’re not wearing the gorilla suit.” Bill looked wounded. “Even if I wash it?” “Especially then. It might shrink.”