Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9G7WD1ZK6FKMED2JHXEJZ

The van idled beside the inflatable castle, coughing like a polite dragon with allergies. Molly flicked confetti from the dashboard while Bill unfolded a blueprint drawn on gift wrap. Balloons thumped the windows. Somewhere inside, a child shrieked with cake energy, and a clown laughed like a creaking door. Nearby. "Operation Birthday Sweep commences at three nineteen, Bill. We blend with parents, we compliment frosting, we harvest gifts, we vanish like considerate raccoons. At dawn." "Three nineteen feels precise in a way my soul distrusts. Also, raccoons never leave thank-you notes. Do we bring decoy presents or emergency balloon animals?" Bill adjusted the fake dad hat that came with free opinions about mulch. Molly tightened her ponytail until schemes fit better behind her ears. The parking lot shimmered with spilled punch. A banner read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUGUST, though the breeze rearranged it to HAP BIRTH, GUST, which felt prophetic somehow. "We bring one decoy, ribboned like diplomacy. If caught, we swap it for the heaviest, thereby escaping fitter and richer, which satisfies fitness apps somehow." "I practiced small talk about nap schedules and the price of blueberries. My smile says responsible citizen; my hands say grab bags like harvest season." A gust rolled a cupcake across the asphalt like a frosted tumbleweed. Molly tracked its trajectory as if it were a guard patrol. A magician unloaded doves, each staring with the judgment of several tiny librarians. Bill took notes on a napkin, then ate the investigative corner absentmindedly while thinking. "Clock it. Cake show at three twelve, pinata at three fifteen, gifts opened at four. We intercede before bows untie, politely interrupting destiny for efficiency." "I can distract with a heartfelt toast about sharing. Children respect speeches, right? Failing that, I shall juggle existential anxieties and possibly oranges if available." A princess in sneakers herded toddlers with the efficiency of air traffic control. Parents clustered around coffee like pilgrims near a sacred spring. The gift table sagged tenderly, paper gleaming, tags winking with innocent handwriting. Molly breathed like a surgeon about to extract a squeaky toy from time and space. "Remember the credo: never run, always glide, mispronounce your own name for plausible deniability. If challenged, rave about battery-free toys and recyclable joy for everyone." "Glide, mispronounce, recycle, got it. I’ll be Phil, an uncle from logistics. Logistics uncles radiate authority, plus a faint smell of tape and steady clipboards." The wind inflated the castle until it loomed like a benevolent citadel daring fools to bounce. A song about sharks gathered small voices into one unstoppable chorus. Bill checked the time. Molly checked the mirror and saw courage, eyeliner, and a crumb. She crushed the crumb with ceremony for luck. "Entry point is the side gate, miraculously labeled ENTRANCE. You carry the decoy and a compliment. I carry poise and an apologetic shrug at altitude." "On three nineteen, we glide. If questioned, I’m Phil, you’re, uh, Polly? We praise August generously, then redistribute resources like mischievous economic theorists in practice."