Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B70P5MX4V1ZDTGBC9P9SX

Molly spread the birthday invitation across their kitchen table, pinning its corners with unpaid bills. A glittery unicorn stared up, apparently disappointed in their profession. “We need disguises, Bill. Nothing suspicious. Nothing memorable. Just two ordinary adults attending a children's party, carrying bags large enough to accommodate considerable birthday joy.” Bill inspected the invitation through reading glasses he had stolen from a librarian. They made him look scholarly, provided nobody asked him to read anything. “Ordinary adults don't bring industrial laundry sacks, Molly. Also, it says pirates welcome. Could we simply dress professionally and pretend our crimes are enthusiastic characterization?” Molly considered this. Her last pirate costume had been confiscated following an incident involving a ferry captain and an unfortunately convincing demand for his vessel. “Pirates are too obvious. We'll be entertainers. You juggle, I'll twist balloons. Then we collect every present while everyone's distracted by your inevitable medical emergency.” Bill lifted three oranges from the fruit bowl, tossed one, and immediately ducked. The orange struck their ceiling fan, which distributed evidence throughout the kitchen. “Excellent. My emergency has already started. But why all the presents? Couldn't we take something sensible, like cash or the parents' visibly deteriorating emotional stability?” Molly tapped the invitation again. Their intended victim was turning six. Bill pictured tiny socks, plastic dinosaurs, and revenge conducted through a school fundraising committee. “Because presents come wrapped, Bill. Nobody knows what's inside. That's practically treasure. Besides, my source says the grandparents are rich and aggressively competitive about affection.” Bill imagined gold bars concealed inside teddy bears. Then he remembered his grandmother, whose greatest financial gift had been teaching him to reuse tea bags. “Your source is the invitation, isn't it? You're basing an entire criminal enterprise on embossed lettering and a unicorn wearing what might be expensive shoes.” Molly folded her arms. Outside, somebody tested a party horn. The mournful noise suggested a duck being informed that its mortgage application had been rejected. “Fine. We'll inspect the gifts first. If they're rubbish, we leave. No theft, no fuss, and absolutely no getting emotionally attached to the birthday child.” Bill looked wounded. Last Christmas, he had abandoned a burglary to assemble a dollhouse and subsequently returned twice to fix its deeply impractical spiral staircase. “That dollhouse was structurally unsound. Anyway, who's our contact inside? We need somebody trustworthy. Somebody discreet. Somebody who won't immediately exchange us for extra frosting.” Molly produced another sheet of paper. Bill recognized the childish handwriting and felt an unpleasant sensation usually associated with warrants or unexpectedly educational television programs. “My nephew invited us. He wants every present stolen. Apparently he's asked for donations to the animal shelter instead. We're his charitable pirate removal service.” Bill stared at her, then at the unicorn. The operation suddenly seemed less like grand larceny and more like volunteering with an unnecessarily complicated conscience. “So we're collecting donated toys? Molly, that's not a heist. That's community service. I haven't even been sentenced yet. Can we at least steal cake?”