Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HZJFDVG0H166M7CVDP392

Molly unfolded a floor plan across the café table. It was drawn in crayon, with a large purple square labeled DOOM. Bill squinted. “Is that the party venue?” “That’s the bouncy castle.” “Why does it say doom?” “Because you’re carrying the presents.” Bill studied the drawing. “Where’s the front door?” “Under the spaghetti stain. The party starts at two. We enter at two fifteen, when the children are distracted by the magician.” “And the parents?” “Distracted by the magician’s invoice.” Bill tapped a red circle. “What’s this?” “Present table. Our target.” “It’s awfully close to the cake.” “You’re afraid of cake?” “I’m afraid of children near cake. Their elbows go everywhere.” Molly pulled a packet of balloons from her coat. “That’s why we’re going in as entertainers. I’m a balloon artist. You’re my assistant.” “Can you make balloon animals?” “I can make a snake.” “That’s just an inflated balloon.” “It’s an exceptionally convincing snake.” A waitress set down two coffees. Molly waited until she’d gone, then produced a tiny silver van from her pocket. Bill picked it up. “Why have you brought a toy van?” “Visual aid. We park here, beside the hedge. We load the presents through the kitchen window, drive away, and split the proceeds.” “How big is the actual van?” “About the same proportions, only larger.” “That’s reassuring. How many presents are there?” “Thirty-seven, according to the invitation photograph.” “You counted them?” “Twice. The pile grew by three between photos. Someone’s aunt is overcompensating.” Bill rubbed his forehead. “We’ll need sacks.” “Already acquired.” “Disguises?” “Already acquired.” “An explanation for why your balloon artist has sacks?” Molly paused. “Professional balloon storage.” “And when they see us putting gift-wrapped boxes in the storage?” “Those are the balloons’ personal effects.” Bill slid the toy van back. “I’d like to renegotiate my fee.” “You get half.” “I’d like half plus dignity.” “Dignity isn’t in the budget.” “What are the presents worth, anyway?” “Unknown. The birthday child is six. Potentially expensive building sets.” “Potentially socks.” “Then we become wealthy in socks.” Molly flipped the floor plan over. On the back was a schedule titled OPERATION HAPPY BIRTHDAY, with arrows crossing out several increasingly elaborate schemes. Bill read one. “Why is ‘hide inside piñata’ crossed out?” “Weight limit.” “And ‘train squirrels’?” “Union dispute.” He looked up. “Molly, how are we getting past the children?” “We tell them we’re running a game.” “What game?” “Find the missing presents.” “That seems likely to draw attention to the missing presents.” “Not if we tell them to count to a hundred first.” “They’re six. One of them will reach a hundred by saying ‘ten’ repeatedly.” Molly folded the plan. “Fine. New approach. We don’t sneak in. We walk straight up to the birthday child and ask where the presents go.” “Why would that work?” “Because everyone at a children’s party is carrying something, and nobody knows where it belongs.” Bill considered this. “What if someone asks who hired us?” “We say the other parent.” “And if there’s only one parent?” “We say the magician.” “You really don’t like that magician.” “I saw his invoice.” Bill reached for his coffee. “One last question. Why steal all the presents?” Molly stared at him. “Because the plan says all.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is if you wrote the plan in crayon.”