Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V8006PV2NNDACPVT1334A

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of their rusted sedan and pinned down the corners with two coffee cups, a half-eaten granola bar, and what appeared to be a rubber duck she had stolen from a previous job. Bill leaned over the map and squinted at what looked like a crayon rendering of a backyard. "Why is everything drawn in purple?" Bill asked. "Because I only had purple," Molly said. "Focus. The party starts at two. We've got a narrow window between the arrival of the bounce house and the appearance of the clown." "I hate clowns," Bill said. "Everyone hates clowns, Bill. That's not relevant to the operation." She tapped a large purple rectangle near the center of the map. "This is the gift table. Based on the Evite, we're looking at twenty-three confirmed attendees. That means twenty-three presents minimum, probably more because some overachieving parents always bring two." Bill let out a low whistle, though it came out more like a wheeze because he had been eating the granola bar. He brushed crumbs from his mustache and studied the layout with the gravity of a man planning to infiltrate a foreign embassy rather than a six-year-old's dinosaur-themed birthday party. "What's our entry point?" he asked. "Side gate," Molly said. "The mom posted her entire backyard renovation on Instagram last week. The latch is decorative. One good push and we're in." "And the dad?" "He'll be at the grill. Every dad is always at the grill. It's like a law of physics." Bill nodded slowly. He had been a dad once, briefly, before his ex-wife discovered he had stolen their wedding gifts and pawned them for seed money on a counterfeit beanie baby operation. He understood the gravitational pull of a grill. "What about the kids?" he asked. "Kids notice things. They're like tiny suspicious detectives with sticky hands." "That's where the bounce house comes in," Molly said, and her eyes took on the gleam they always got right before she explained the brilliant part. "At exactly two fifteen, I will puncture the bounce house with this." She produced a knitting needle from her jacket pocket and held it up like a sword. "Mass hysteria. Crying. Chaos. Every adult within fifty yards will converge on the deflating bounce house like moths to a porch light." "That's diabolical," Bill said. "Thank you." "What do I do during the chaos?" "You back the car up to the side gate, and we load the presents into the trunk. Sixty seconds, in and out." Bill rubbed his chin and stared at the purple map one more time. A bird landed on the hood of the car, looked at both of them, and flew away as if it wanted no part in what was about to happen. "One question," Bill said. "What if the presents are bad? What if it's all socks and educational toys?" Molly folded the map with surgical precision and looked him dead in the eye. "Then we hit the next party on Saturday."