Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9QRD55GRM38ADNE7AHG1N

"All I’m saying, Bill, is if we blend with balloons, nobody notices two adults orbiting frosting like moons around Jupiter’s most chaotic sprinkle storm today." The parking lot simmered with summer heat, and Molly tracked ants marching beneath a cupcake flyer, as if even bugs rehearsed choreography for pilfered crumbs. "Subtle, Molly, except I wheeze around helium; last time I sounded like a doorbell proposing marriage, and three toddlers tried to adopt me as decoration." Bill balanced a plastic tiara on his knuckles, practicing misdirection that fooled no one, least of all the feral pigeon judging them from a lamppost. "Then we pivot: matching vests, clipboards, authoritative boots, and an air of birthday bureaucracy so dense it blocks confetti; people surrender parcels to paperwork immediately." A breeze wobbled a banner across the park gates, letters bragging about Trevor’s Seventh Extravaganza, while a rented castle inflated like an ego catching compliments. "Paperwork, okay, but what about the guardian dragon, otherwise known as Trevor’s grandmother, who sees through schemes like X-ray glasses aimed at our questionable souls?" Molly pictured the grandmother, stern as a carved spoon, while Bill’s reflection peered from the café window like a wanted poster drawn by a clown. "We honor her, Bill; we bow, we curtsy, we request an autograph for our imaginary compliance scrapbook, and while dazzled, she forgets counting gift boxes." A kid in a cape zoomed past the window, cape shorter than his ambition; behind him, a parent negotiated peace with juice boxes and fatigue. "Counting is contagious at parties; say nine boxes aloud and everyone discovers ten, eleven, math; perhaps we announce a surprise audit of wrapping paper density." Bill drummed rhythms on the table, a covert Morse code for nerves; Molly measured the room’s optimism and borrowed just enough to varnish their bravado. "Also, the magician; we must not anger someone who can produce doves from sleeves and grudges from thin air; we compliment the hat, excessively, repeatedly." The plan, such as it was, looked like origami folded by weather: recognizable bird-shape one second, soggy ambition the next, yet still eager to flap. "We’ll need exit music; if questioned, we waltz away humming Happy Birthday in a minor key, like regret wearing party shoes four sizes small tonight." Outside, a clown rehearsed near the carousel, solemn as a meteorologist predicting sprinkles; bubbles drifted by, each one a tiny crystal ball forecasting chaos soon. "Molly, what if the cake fights back, sentient frosting forming a sticky jury; what if presents unionize and demand breaks, better ribbons, and healthcare benefits?" She snorted, then softened, remembering birthdays when wrapping sounded like rain and promises; thieving didn’t cancel history, it just scribbled mustaches on its portraits sometimes. "Here’s the truth, Bill: we liberate gifts briefly, admire their bows, then return everything except the smallest one, to remind fate we noticed it today." They clinked paper cups, toasted to improbable mercy, and stepped into the sun where sugar hung like mist; the day, complicit, pretended not to watch.