Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9JSEPAT23C59VJPH4KJJ9

The vinyl booth at Joe’s Diner stuck to Molly’s thigh, a grease stain blooming on her black hoodie where she’d leaned against a ketchup-smeared tray. She stirred her decaf coffee with a plastic dinosaur spoon, a dollar-store toy tiara twirling between her free fingers—practice for the kids’ party’s princess theme. Bill hunched across from her, scribbling a lopsided floor plan on a napkin with a broken crayon, a half-eaten cherry pie oozing filling onto his notebook. The diner’s jukebox blared a tinny “Happy Birthday,” making him flinch. The present table’s tucked by the ball pit—prime real estate, no adult supervision after cake cutting. Cake cutting’s at 3, but the party clown does a balloon animal demo at 2:45. You gonna dodge a polka-dot-suited guy wielding a helium tank? I’ve dodged security dogs twice my size; a clown’s child’s play. You cried at the circus when you were 12 because a clown handed you a squirt-flower. That was a tactical retreat—he had a squirt gun in his cufflinks. Unethical. What about the balloon arch? You scribbled “death trap” on the napkin, but you didn’t outline a workaround. Bubble solution. I’ll squirt the arches, they’ll stick together—easy to step over. Bubble solution? That’s a party favor, not a heist tool. I was a party clown for six months—bubble solution solves 90% of crises. The other 10% involves cake frosting and regret. The birthday boy’s 7-year-old cousin’s a walkie-talkie-wielding secret agent. He guards the present table like it’s a diamond vault. I’ll distract him with a rubber chicken trick—pull it from my pocket, he’ll forget his post. A rubber chicken? That’s ridiculous. He’s 7. Ridiculous is his love language. You gonna carry the presents in a backpack? The wrapping paper’ll crinkle—alert every adult within 10 feet. I’ve got a cloth sack lined with felt—no crinkles, fits 12 presents max. We’ll make two trips. Two trips? That doubles our risk of getting caught by the mom who’s refilling the juice boxes. That mom’s drunk on mimosa punch. She’ll be napping on the couch by 2:30. Molly snickered, dropping the dinosaur spoon into her coffee with a clink. She plucked the napkin from Bill’s hand to circle the balloon arch, the waitress sliding a refilled pie slice in front of him without a word. Bill crumpled the napkin into the pie tin, placing the toy tiara on his head with a scowl. Molly snapped a photo with her phone to blackmail him later. The jukebox switched to a country song, and they checked their watches—2 hours until the party, 1 helium tank to dodge, and a mountain of wrapped presents waiting for their less-than-heroic heist.