Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B6D4EETGKK8QSH2G680ZB

Molly spread the birthday invitation across a dustbin lid with the solemnity of a general unveiling battle plans. Rain dripped from her hat directly onto the smiling cartoon giraffe. She regarded this as useful camouflage. “We are not robbing children, Bill. We are redistributing excessive wrapping paper and plastic dinosaurs.” Bill stood beside her wearing a white tracksuit, hooves fashioned from oven mitts, and a glittering horn. His expression suggested the last surviving member of a species that had made several unfortunate evolutionary choices recently. “That sounds like robbing children with a grant application. Also, why am I the unicorn?” Molly checked the invitation again. The party belonged to Oliver, aged seven, whose parents had hired entertainment, a magician, and apparently enough balloons to lift their mortgage. Nobody had hired a unicorn. This worried Bill. “Because you have the necessary height, tragic eyes, and absolutely no chance of passing inspection.” He adjusted his horn. It sagged over one eyebrow, giving him the appearance of a disappointed traffic cone. Across the street, shrieking children chased a man dressed as broccoli. Bill considered their priorities entirely sound. “My horn is crooked. Last time, your equipment specifications left me trapped inside a cake.” Molly produced a notebook headed OPERATION MANY HAPPY RETURNS. Below that, she had drawn a sack, an arrow, and herself reclining on a yacht. The yacht was optimistic. Their current transport was a borrowed wheelbarrow. “This time we mingle, locate the presents, and leave before anyone requests an emotional breakthrough.” Bill peered through the garden fence. The present table glittered beneath ribbons, but the birthday boy was handing packages to smaller children. One little girl hugged a box as though it contained her entire universe. “Children request ponies, Molly. Adults request emotional breakthroughs. You have confused birthdays with corporate retreats.” Her pencil paused above the yacht. She added a life jacket, then scratched it out. A grandmother appeared beside the table, carrying lemonade and wearing the unmistakable expression of someone who had defeated worse men. “Fine. We take every present. Except anything handmade. I maintain standards, despite what prosecutors suggest.” Bill straightened involuntarily. The grandmother turned toward the fence. Her gaze passed over Molly, then settled on the unicorn. For a terrible moment, even the broccoli seemed to stop suffering and await divine criminal judgment. “What about the grandmother? She looks capable of identifying criminals through three layers of upholstery.” Molly folded the invitation into smaller and smaller squares. Beyond the fence, Oliver waved at Bill with wholehearted delight, a gesture so ruinously trusting that Molly felt her magnificent yacht sink beneath an imaginary sea. “We abort if she notices us. Nobody gets hurt, especially me. My knees are sentimental.” Bill lifted the rabbit from their wheelbarrow. Molly took it, brushed rain from its ears, and marched toward the gate. Behind her, Bill followed reluctantly, wondering whether honest employment always required this much professional humiliation. “Excellent. Our first ethical robbery. Shall I start by returning this suspiciously judgmental stuffed rabbit?”