Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB1ECQXVSVR0VEQC3G2YT3

In the idling van across from the community center, Molly spread a crinkled napkin blueprinted with frosting fingerprints across the dashboard. Balloons bobbed in the heat like optimistic jellyfish, and a banner flapped that promised: HAPPY FIFTH, MAX! Bill squinted at the doodled topography—gift table, bouncy castle, sprinklers set to ambush. The van smelled faintly of cinnamon and bad decisions. A stroller the size of a moon rover occupied the rear, its undercarriage already packed with decoy celery sticks and a collapsible top hat. Somewhere inside the building, a rehearsal playlist thumped with small but determined enthusiasm. Molly clicked a pen between her teeth and tapped the napkin’s corner, where she’d scribbled a skull over a drawing labeled Cupcake Volcano. "We hit the party at two, blend with the uncles, and roll the decoy cake straight to the gift table," said Molly. "Uncles are a risky camouflage; what if someone asks me to assemble a scooter with tiny despairing screws?" said Bill. Molly flipped to her second napkin, a legend of symbols that looked like a pirate’s refrigerator poetry, and underlined the sprinkler array as if swearing at weather. "Smile, nod, and deploy the screwdriver bouquet; also, rehearse sighing like a man who has seen an instruction manual," said Molly. Bill rehearsed a tragic, fatherly exhale that could have steamed mirrors and possibly wilted lettuce, then peered at the stroller like it might suddenly demand child support. "Right, and you’ll be the magician’s assistant, distracting with glitter physics while I liberate the packages," said Bill. Molly produced the hat, shook it, and released a small comet-tail of biodegradable sparkle that settled on Bill’s eyebrows, immediately promoting them to management. "Not assistant—head illusionist; my top hat holds three presents and the moral flexibility of a cartoon fox," said Molly. Outside, a balloon escaped its string and drifted up like a witness relocating. Bill watched it go as if it carried the last of his innocence, then took out a laminated checklist. "Do we have an exit plan that doesn’t involve a conga line with a furious llama piñata?" said Bill. Molly pointed to a squiggle marked Alley of Regret and to an arrow, bold enough to count as optimism, that led straight through a forest of folding chairs stacked like chrome trees. "Yes—stroller exfiltration; we tuck the loot under a mountain of ethically sourced carrot sticks," said Molly. Bill opened the stroller’s canopy and discovered an interior pouch labeled Emergency Whimsy. Inside were wet wipes, a harmonica the size of regret, and a sticker reading I Survived Toddler Negotiations. "Ethically sourced from where, the Valley of Crunch?" said Bill. She took the harmonica, blew a note so jaunty it bounced off the windshield, and grinned. The cake-shaped decoy in the cooler gurgled gently; it was mostly insulation and audacity. "From my glove compartment; now memorize the map: trampoline here, perilous cupcakes there, gift table under the helium arch," said Molly. "Copy that," said Bill. The banner flapped again, blessing their nonsense.