Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9ANQ3QVW60XK6M8ZWAYD6

The alley behind Sunny Bunny Playhouse smelled like frosting and helium. Molly leaned over a napkin map she’d salvaged from a bakery, a sprinkle grinding under her elbow. Bill balanced on an upturned milk crate like a pirate on a very small plank. From somewhere beyond the brick wall came a chorus of kazoos and the implacable thrum of party music. Balloons bobbed above the wall like buoyant sentries. Molly tapped the X on the napkin and raised an eyebrow. Bill answered by lifting a rubber chicken as if it were a ceremonial dagger. Somewhere, a child screamed with the joy of a thousand cupcakes. “Ready to commit history’s first confectionary redistribution?” Molly whispered. “Only if we redistribute in favor of us,” Bill said. “And the chicken demands a cut.” “The chicken’s got better representation than you,” she said. “Now, the presents.” “I’ve been practicing my innocent face,” Bill said, contorting his eyebrows. “It says, ‘I am absolutely here to juggle and not to abscond with paper-wrapped loot.’” “Juggling implies you can keep more than one thing in the air,” Molly said. “Unproven.” “I can keep three thoughts in the air,” Bill said. “Unfortunately, two of them are about cake.” “We’re not touching the cake,” Molly said. “Cake smears. Presents stack.” “What if the presents are sticky,” Bill said. “Kids are sticky. Kids make presents sticky.” “Then we wear gloves,” she said. “Gloves and charm.” “I left my charm in my other pants,” Bill said. “Also, my other pants are legally a parachute.” Molly peered over the wall, then ducked as a confetti cannon sneezed. “We need cover.” “I can cover myself in face paint,” Bill said. “I will be a sorrowful mime of astonishing speed.” “Mimes don’t talk,” Molly said. “I’m a postmodern mime,” he said. “I monologue.” “No monologues,” she said. “Just mingle. Blend. Float through like a ghost who RSVP’d.” “Do ghosts bring a gift?” Bill asked. “We should bring a decoy gift.” “I did,” Molly said, tapping a box wrapped in stars. “Inside is a note that says, ‘Surprise: socks.’” “Socks are the true horror,” Bill said. “The parents will applaud. The kids will boo. Chaos favors us.” She nodded toward the inflatable castle looming over the fence like a jellyfish. “That’s our horizon.” “Inflatable castles were my academic downfall,” Bill said. “Spent a semester in one, got a degree in Boing.” “Focus,” Molly said. “When the magician pulls a rabbit, everyone looks. That’s when we drift.” “I drift terribly,” Bill said. “I drift like a shopping cart with one rogue wheel.” “Then push the cart with purpose,” she said. “We’re professionals.” “We definitely are,” he said. “I have a receipt for a fake mustache.” “Put it on,” Molly said. He applied the mustache upside down. “How do I look?” “Like a walrus applying for a grant,” she said. “Perfect. Parents trust grants.” From inside, a chorus chanted, “Open the presents!” A siren-song for amateurs; for Molly, a timetable. “Okay,” Bill said. “In. Out. No cake. Minimal glitter ingestion.” “If you lick glitter,” Molly said, “you become a disco ball inside.” “That explains college,” he muttered. “Remember your roles,” she said. “You’re Uncle Bill.” “I’m nobody’s uncle,” he said. “But I have an uncle’s opinions about lawn care.” “Perfect. Complain about the grass,” she said. “I’ll admire the bunting. We meet by the potted fern.” “There’s always a potted fern,” he said. “A fern knows everything.” “Don’t talk to the fern,” she said. “It’ll rat you out.” He took a breath so deep it seemed to inflate his socks. “We are good people doing a bad thing in a very silly way.” “We are efficient people doing a neat thing with ribbon,” Molly said. “Ready?” “On three,” Bill said. “One.” “Two,” Molly said. They stared at the wall like it might sprout a staircase. “Wait,” Bill hissed. “If they ask us to sing Happy Birthday?” “Sing in Latin,” Molly said. “It sounds expensive.” “Right,” he said. “Very uncle. Extremely lawn.” “Go,” she said, and together they stepped into the rhythm of the party, the music catching them like a conveyor belt, a tide of laughter carrying them toward a mountain of wrapped promises and the potted fern that, for once, kept its fronds to itself.