Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YH1ACY58JSFYXFAZWFKW8A

The birthday party occupied the garden of Number Twelve, behind a hedge trimmed into the shape of a rabbit with a deeply unfortunate expression. “We go in disguised as entertainers,” Molly said. “Nobody questions a clown.” “I question every clown,” Bill said. “That’s why I keep binoculars.” Molly unfolded a map on the bonnet of their car. She had drawn the house, the garden, and a large red circle marked PRESENTS. “The gifts are on this table, beside the inflatable castle,” she said. “Are you certain? That looks suspiciously like a drawing of a chicken.” “It’s a castle. The chicken is here, guarding the garden gate.” Bill studied the sketch. The chicken appeared to have six legs and an axe. He decided not to ask whether it was to scale. “We’ll need a distraction,” he said. “Something spectacular, but not emotionally scarring.” “I’ve brought bubbles. We release them, then grab the presents while everyone’s distracted.” Molly produced a bottle from her coat. The label promised industrial-strength bubbles, suitable for weddings, festivals, and discouraging pigeons from landing on important statues. “Lovely,” Bill said. “But how do we carry forty-seven wrapped presents out?” “In this enormous sack. I borrowed it from my cousin at Christmas.” Bill examined the sack. It was red, fuzzy, and embroidered with the words PROPERTY OF SANTA. A tiny bell jingled when he shook it. “We’ll look ridiculous,” he said. “Also, it’s June. Santa has no jurisdiction.” “Then turn it inside out. Honestly, Bill, I can’t do everything myself.” Beyond the hedge came the sound of children cheering. A balloon rose into the sky, followed by a slice of cake with remarkable velocity. “Those children are armed,” Bill said. “We should reconsider the front entrance.” “We use the side gate. My map shows it behind the chicken.” Bill peered around the hedge. The side gate stood open, but a woman in a paper crown sat beside it, knitting with formidable concentration. “She’ll see us,” he whispered. “Unless those needles are actually her eyes.” “We’ll tell her we’re delivering entertainment. You can juggle, can’t you, Bill?” He could not. He had once attempted three oranges and ended up apologizing to a pharmacist. Nevertheless, he picked up three decorative garden stones. “I can certainly start juggling,” he said. “Finishing is somebody else’s problem.” “Good enough. While you’re dazzling her, I’ll sneak past with the sack.” Bill tossed a stone. It landed on the bonnet, bounced off the map, and disappeared down the drain. Molly reconsidered the importance of dazzling. “New plan,” she said. “You hand her a bubble and run away.” “Excellent. Shall I explain why, or leave her with the mystery forever?” Molly checked her watch, straightened her clown wig, and handed him the bottle. Bill took one last look at the garden and swallowed hard. “What happens if a child catches us carrying away all the presents?” “We improvise,” Molly said. “Tell them Santa’s conducting a surprise quality inspection.” A trumpet sounded behind the hedge. The chicken emerged through the gate, entirely ordinary except for the party hat tied beneath its beak. Bill froze. “It’s coming toward us,” he whispered. “Your map didn’t mention its hat.” “Forget the presents,” Molly said. “We’re stealing that chicken’s entire wardrobe instead.”