Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ918CKNMH1FXWHVVDBVPGG

The rain tapped against the windshield of Bill's rusted Pontiac like an impatient landlord. Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the dashboard, knocking an empty coffee cup onto Bill's lap. "Watch it," Bill said. "Focus," Molly said. "Now, the birthday boy goes in for cake at three o'clock. That gives us a twelve minute window." Bill squinted at the map. "You drew the bouncy castle in incredible detail for something that has nothing to do with the job." "I was bored," Molly said. "The point is, the presents are stacked on the gift table, which is here, next to the clown." "I don't like clowns," Bill said. "Nobody asked you, Bill." "I'm just saying, as a professional consideration." Molly folded the corner of the map down and stared at him. Outside, a minivan full of small children pulled into the driveway of the house across the street. Streamers had been tied to the mailbox and were immediately destroyed by the wind. "There she is," Molly said. "Seven years old today. You know what she's getting for her birthday?" "Nothing," Bill said. "Nothing," Molly agreed, and she smiled in a way that suggested she had practiced it. Bill drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was wearing a fake mustache that he had not been asked to wear and had not mentioned to Molly, who had been pretending not to notice it for forty minutes. "The clown is the variable," Bill said. "Clowns are unpredictable. They have big shoes. You can't hear them coming." "We are not going to be outwitted by a party clown," Molly said. "You say that now." "I say that always. That's my consistent position on clowns." Bill peeled the mustache off, examined it briefly, and pressed it back on. Molly watched this happen and decided not to pursue it. "What about the parents?" Bill asked. "Inside, running the cake situation," Molly said. "There's some kind of ice cream emergency, according to my source." "Your source is the neighbor kid." "My source has eyes and a bicycle and very few ethical commitments. He's perfect." Bill looked at the house again. A balloon escaped from somewhere in the backyard and floated up past their windshield with quiet dignity. They both watched it go. "We grab the presents, we're back in the car in nine minutes," Molly said. "Clean and simple." "Clean and simple," Bill repeated, like a man who had heard those exact words before and had the scar tissue to prove it. "Don't do that voice," Molly said. "What voice?" "The voice where you repeat what I say but somehow make it sound like a funeral." "That's just my voice," Bill said. Molly rolled up the map and tucked it into her jacket. She checked her watch. She looked at the house. She looked at Bill and his mustache and his funeral voice and briefly reconsidered her entire career. "Let's go," she said.