Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAH21M274A61SDM1MCNSP8

Rain freckled the bakery window where they huddled, two shadows with mismatched umbrellas and a shopping cart that squeaked like a conscience. The street beyond glittered with helium balloons and parental optimism, a parade of frosting waiting to happen. Molly drummed her fingers on a napkin map, which mostly resembled a confused snowflake. Bill warmed his hands around a paper cup that promised coffee but delivered jittery hot hope. Across the road, the community center wore a banner loud enough to be arrested: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JASPER! The exclamation point looked like it might press charges. Inside, music thumped like a pony in tap shoes, and someone tested a confetti cannon with the restraint of a thunderstorm. The gift table, visible through a lopsided paper-doily window, had begun to sag under a topography of dinosaurs, sparkle paper, and the kind of bows that could blind a man with cheer. Molly, who collected plans the way crows collect glitter, studied the timing of arrivals. Bill, who collected scrapes from life and jokes to polish them, watched the parents rehearse concern about napkins. A magician wheeled past with a suitcase that clicked ominously, as though full of rabbits filing freedom papers. The cart’s one loyal wheel hiccupped when Molly moved it, a tiny metronome to their impatience. She jotted numbers in the condensation on the window, only to have the bakery clerk squeegee away their future with a mop of civility. Outside, a child in a cape declared the law of gravity void. Molly: You see that banner? It’s basically yelling, please trip over me and fall into cake. Bill: I tripped just reading it. Also, the pony music owes me an apology. Molly: Focus. We need a cover story that involves maximum innocence and minimum glitter. Bill: I can juggle two cupcakes and a regret. That reads wholesome. Molly: Wholesome is good; crumbs are alibis you can vacuum. Bill: What about the gift table? It’s sagging like a hammock that swallowed a rainbow. Molly: Our target is all presents. But no snatching; we practice borrowing. Bill: Borrowing with no return policy. Molly: Semantics are the silk pajamas of ethics. Bill: Fine. Timing, then. When the confetti cannon sneezes, we drift like polite ghosts. Molly: Not ghosts, inspectors. Cake Bureau agents radiate authority and mild frosting at birth. Bill: I can look allergic to literally everything, including Tuesdays. Molly: I’ll nod at an invisible clipboard of destiny, and you’ll pronounce calendrical omens loudly. Bill: Words like throughput, synergy, and imminent balloon fatigue. Molly: Add a sigh heavy with spreadsheets. Bill: Should we wear hats? Molly: Always. Hats domesticate chaos. Bill: And what if a magician challenges us to a duel of rabbits? Molly: We applaud, bow, and relocate the nearest dinosaur wrapping to a safer climate. Bill: Safer for who? Molly: For our consciences, which prefer altitude and pastry. Bill: Speaking of pastry, if this goes poorly, we become a cake-shaped weather phenomenon immediately. Molly: If it goes well, we’re official parade confetti.