Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9M6W99K92FHZZME8YH1W0

The van idled beside the park like a nervous goat, its paint flecked with confetti ghosts from previous mistakes. Molly balanced a glitter map on a pizza box, while Bill peered through binoculars that were actually two paper towel tubes taped together. Somewhere beyond the hedges, kazoos screamed in triumph. "Bill, remind me why we’re infiltrating a birthday again, and not, say, a quiet library with forgotten bookmarks shaped like priceless butterflies? Seems fiscally whimsical." "Molly, libraries shush, parties gush; we’re harvesting peak generosity. Also, toddlers cannot chase us far in socks, and cake disguises every moral blemish. Quite reliably." Molly flicked a sprinkle from her sleeve and considered the inflatable castle bobbing beyond a string of sun-faded pennants. The castle seemed to inhale courage and exhale squeals. Bill was labeling tote bags with names like “Alibi,” “Decoy,” and “Probably Regret.” The pizza box map kept sliding toward destiny slowly. "What’s our entry method, Bill? I refuse to limbo under a streamer again; last time, I communed spiritually with a hedgehog centerpiece named Angela unexpectedly." "We stroll in with confidence and balloons; confidence confuses guards, balloons confuse gravity. We’ll claim we’re hired magicians specializing in present relocation illusions, extremely avant-garde." Across the grass, a clown performed cardiac arrest on a cluster of rubber chickens, reviving them one peep at a time. Parents formed bewildered semicircles. A table groaned beneath paper crowns, gift bags, and a piñata shaped like responsibility. The sun leaned in, nosy and overly enthusiastic. About birthday business. "Bill, I’m unconvinced about avant-garde. Last time you said avant-garde, we hid inside a mascot suit and became regional ambassadors for grapes for confusing diplomacy." "Those were educational grapes. Besides, these presents are practically begging for relocation; listen to that rustling paper chorus. It’s a siren song in crinkly outfits." Bill practiced a smile he called “benevolent misdirection,” which looked like a raccoon applying for a grant. Molly tested the balloon pump; it wheezed like an old accordion gossiping. A gust angled confetti into the van, tinting the upholstery festive. Their reflection in the windshield looked unexpectedly wholesome, almost neighborly. "Fine, magician it is. But if anyone asks for a trick, Bill, I’m only qualified to produce existential dread and a surprisingly agile rubber duck." "I’ll handle illusions; you handle patter. Say things like, “Behold, a transference of joy,” while I relocate joy into the labeled receptacles with utmost ceremony." They rehearsed the walk: shoulders relaxed, chins brave, feet un-sneaky. Molly practiced bowing to invisible applause; Bill practiced not winking at authority figures. Each exhale carried perfume of frosting and nervous ambition. Somewhere a candle went out and cheered. The van clicked, a metronome counting them pleasantly ridiculous before entry. "Ready, partner? Remember, smile like a cupcake, move like a polite breeze, and if cornered, recite the balloon oath and compliment everyone’s shoes with conviction." "Ready as confetti, Molly. Operation Borrowed Joy commences now; we enter, we bow, we bewilder, we depart, leaving only footprints and a gentle citrus mystery."