Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9H0K5Q954K9D6G51AW671

The chipped Formica tabletop of the diner felt sticky under Molly’s elbows. Rain lashed against the plate glass window, blurring the neon signs of the Main Street outside. Across from her, Bill was meticulously constructing a tower of sugar packets. “So, you’re absolutely sure about this, Molly?” Bill asked, not looking up from his miniature sugar edifice. “A children’s party? Really? That’s… low, even for us.” Molly took a long sip of lukewarm coffee. “Low pays well, Bill. And according to Agnes, this isn’t just any children's party. It's Penelope Featherbottom’s fifth birthday. Penelope’s father, Reginald Featherbottom, is practically dripping in old money. He’s commissioned bespoke, hand-painted rocking horses. Solid gold sticker books. A miniature, rideable carousel. Think of it, Bill! Think of the resale value!” Bill’s sugar tower wobbled, threatening to collapse. He rescued it with a frantic hand. “Right, right, the resale value. Still, kids, Molly. Tiny, screaming kids. And balloons. I hate balloons.” “We’ll be in and out. Like shadows. Think ninja, Bill. Tiny, gift-snatching ninjas.” Molly grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. “Besides, Agnes' intel is impeccable. The party is at the Featherbottom manor, sprawling gardens, minimal security. Apparently, Reginald believes the only security he needs is a good gardener and a chihuahua.” “A chihuahua? Seriously? That’s it? A glorified rodent? I could take a chihuahua.” Bill puffed out his chest slightly. “Don’t, Bill. Don’t antagonize the chihuahua. It’s a status symbol. They’re probably trained in intimidating yaps.” Molly pointed a french fry at him. “The point is, we go in disguised as entertainers. I’m thinking… clowns.” Bill’s face crumpled. “Clowns? Absolutely not. I have a *thing* about clowns. The painted smiles, the oversized shoes, the… squeakiness. It’s deeply unsettling.” “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s perfect camouflage! Kids love clowns! We’ll be swirling around, juggling, handing out balloon animals… and scooping up the presents when nobody’s looking.” Molly started sketching frantically on a napkin. “I’m thinking bright yellow suits, oversized red noses… possibly one of those flower hats.” “No flower hats! Absolutely no flower hats!” Bill insisted, his voice rising in pitch. “I’d rather fight the chihuahua.” “Fine, fine. No flower hats. But you’re doing the juggling. I’m terrible at juggling. Mostly, I just drop things. And sometimes I accidentally hit people with them.” “Excellent. I’ll juggle. You’ll distract the birthday girl with… what? A magic trick? A poorly executed impression of a flamingo?” “I can do a pretty decent starfish,” Molly said thoughtfully. “Or maybe I’ll just compliment her dress. Kids respond well to compliments, apparently.” Bill sighed, resigned. “So, we’re stealing presents from five-year-olds dressed as clowns. My life is officially a fever dream.” He surveyed his sugar packet tower, which had finally succumbed to gravity. "And I'm juggling."