Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9ARYE1F9YGBRCJAS08JDX

Molly unfolded a crayon-smeared flyer advertising a backyard extravaganza and grinned. The plan wasn’t sleek; it wore cupcake icing and sticky fingerprints. Bill paced the alley’s chalk constellations, imagining sentries in paper hats and juice-box bribes backfiring. Somewhere, a bounce house sighed like a sleepy dragon. Confetti drifted from a previous surrender. They rehearsed smiles, compared camouflage—pastel hoodies, sneakers, an air of innocent bewilderment. Presents meant decoys, tissue paper traps, and tags weaponized by handwriting. Their getaway cart, a squeaky wagon, waited beneath a disgruntled piñata. Timing, they agreed, hinged on the birthday song’s note and the inevitable sugar crash. "Molly, this is low, even for us, you know. Right?" "Bill, relax; it's philanthropy inverted: we relieve future clutter, heroically." "Also, balloons squeak like alarms; we tiptoe, we succeed, yes?" "Tiptoe past toddlers? They detect crumbs at fifty yards, commander." "Good, then bribe the clown with coupons and existential reassurance." "Coupons expire, Molly; clowns value secrets, like where cake hides." "Perfect, whisper: the cake is square, the knives are sporks." "Sporks unnerve me; presents don't, except the ones that giggle." "Then avoid giggles; target boxes labeled From Aunt, safely sweatered." "And if caught, improvise a puppet show about sharing responsibly."