Run: 2026-10-05-01M46BC9DA0J8QNK290QFYYA35

Molly spread a birthday invitation across the table. Bill examined it with the solemn concentration of a bomb disposal expert confronting something far worse: a glittery unicorn wearing tiny sunglasses. “Saturday, three o’clock. We get inside, take the presents, and leave before anyone notices.” “Children notice everything.” “Adults notice nothing when cake arrives.” “Last time, an adult noticed you.” “Last time, I was carrying his sofa.” “You said the sofa was complimentary.” “It complemented my living room. A linguistic misunderstanding.” Bill opened his notebook. Under MASTER PLAN, he had drawn a balloon, crossed it out, and drawn a second balloon with eyebrows. Molly waited while he added a sinister mustache. “What’s that?” “Our disguise.” “A criminal balloon?” “A party entertainer. Everybody trusts entertainers.” “Everybody suspects entertainers. Especially ones with mustaches on their balloons.” “Then you be the entertainer.” “I can’t juggle.” “Neither can I.” “We could call it experimental juggling.” “That’s dropping things.” “Exactly. Children love watching adults fail spectacularly.” Molly pictured herself beneath a rain of plastic bowling pins. Bill pictured applause. Outside, a delivery van beeped, and both thieves ducked automatically, despite having paid for their sandwiches today. “How many presents?” “Twenty, maybe thirty.” “That’s a lot of wrapping.” “We’re stealing them, not reviewing the craftsmanship.” “What if one contains a hamster?” “Then we acquire a hamster.” “I’m allergic.” “To hamsters?” “To responsibility.” “We sell everything afterward.” “Even the hamster?” “Especially the hamster.” “Heartless.” “Practical.” “It might squeak.” “We cannot fence a squeaky hamster.” “Bill, nobody said fence.” “You said sell.” “A pet shop.” “They ask questions.” “Such as?” “Why is this hamster wearing a birthday hat?” “Remove the hat.” “Now we’re stealing his clothes too.” “You have a remarkable talent for complicating crime.” “I prefer ethical complexity.” She turned the invitation over. A photograph showed the birthday girl grinning beside a dog dressed as a pirate. Bill leaned closer, and his professional expression began leaking around edges. “There’s a dog.” “I see it.” “He has an eyepatch.” “A costume.” “Or history.” “Don’t invent a tragic backstory.” “He lost an eye defending those presents.” “He probably lost nothing.” “Then he’s undercover.” “You’re frightened of a spaniel.” “A decorated naval spaniel.” “Fine. We avoid him.” “He’ll remember our faces. What if we bring a present?” “To establish credibility?” “To apologize in advance.” “That rather undermines the operation.” “Something nice. A telescope.” “You want to spend money?” “On science.” “We’re thieves.” “Thieves can support science.” “Molly, are we still stealing the presents?” “Obviously.” “After cake?” “After cake.” “And the singing?” Molly folded the invitation carefully. Bill erased MASTER PLAN and wrote SHOPPING LIST. Neither mentioned the change. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed, sounding horribly like an accomplice getting promoted early. “After the singing. Then we strike.” “Unless she likes the telescope.” “That would complicate matters.” “And the dog.” “Stop mentioning the dog.” “Should we get him something?” “A biscuit.” “A pirate biscuit?” “Just a biscuit, Bill.” “So our getaway includes shopping?” “Apparently.” “We’re terrible criminals.” “Yes. But excellent party guests.”