Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VP8N85QS0G15DR9EDE887

Molly pressed her back flat against the garden wall and studied the map Bill was holding. It had been drawn in orange crayon on the back of a takeaway menu, which she found both impressive and deeply concerning in equal measure. "Walk me through it again," she said. "Side gate, cross the garden, in through the patio doors. Forty-two presents in the dining room. We're out in under three minutes." "And the children?" "Musical chairs. They'll be occupied." "How do you know there'll be musical chairs?" Bill looked at her with the patient expression of someone who considered this a ridiculous question. "There is always musical chairs. It's a birthday. It's practically law." The house was number fourteen. Pink bunting zigzagged between the fence posts, fluttering with complete unawareness of the criminal enterprise being planned on the pavement outside. From inside came the sustained cacophony of eleven children between the ages of five and seven, a sound that sat somewhere between a sporting event and a controlled demolition. A bouncy castle occupied the far end of the garden, groaning rhythmically like something that deeply regretted its career choices. "Have you done a children's party before?" Molly asked. "Technically no. But I've done weddings. It's the same principle." "It is absolutely not the same principle." "Large gathering," Bill said, ticking off his fingers. "Catered food. Presents. Adults distracted by the management of other people's emotions. Same principle." She decided to let this go, which she recognized as the most sensible decision she had made all day. What neither of them had factored into the plan was the dog. It sat beside the patio doors with the focused composure of a trained professional, watching them with enormous unblinking eyes that communicated a thorough and deeply personal awareness of their intentions. It had not moved once, and showed no intention of doing so. "We have a dog problem," Molly said flatly. "We have a dog opportunity," Bill said. "I have a biscuit." "Please tell me there is more to the plan than one biscuit." "It's a very good biscuit. Premium. It's been known to resolve situations." "Has it." "Anecdotally." Inside, a recording crackled to life and the thunder of small feet across hardwood announced the start of musical chairs. The adults migrated toward the kitchen. The window was now. Precisely, specifically, absolutely now. "Ready?" Bill asked. "The dog hasn't moved." "The biscuit will sort the dog. Trust the biscuit." He threw it with the confidence of a man who had complete faith in his methods. The biscuit arced through the afternoon air, landed on the patio stones with a soft click, and bounced once. The dog watched this happen with moderate interest. Then it looked back at Bill with an expression that could only be described as professional disappointment. Molly turned to him slowly. "The biscuit," she said, "has not sorted the dog." Bill considered the evidence available to him. "No," he admitted quietly. "It has not."