Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WFRAPME09H2FGJ02HQ8RD

The rain hammered against the windshield of a rusted Ford Econoline van parked directly across from 14 Primrose Lane, where the birthday banner for one "Archie, Age 7!" flapped aggressively in the October wind like it was personally offended by the weather. Inside the van, Molly pressed a pair of binoculars to her face with the concentration of a woman defusing a bomb, while Bill ate a bag of pretzels so loudly that she could barely hear herself think. "There are at least twenty kids in there," she said. "Twenty-two," Bill corrected, dusting pretzel salt off his tactical vest, which he had purchased at an army surplus store and which made him feel tremendously important. "I counted the party hats through the window before you fogged up the binoculars with your breathing." "My breathing is completely normal." "Your breathing is a known meteorological event." Molly lowered the binoculars and looked at him. This was a look she had been perfecting for eleven years of partnership, a look that communicated everything from mild irritation to the sincere conviction that she had made catastrophic life choices. It was a deeply expressive look, and Bill had never once correctly identified what it meant. He received it warmly, as he always did, and offered her a pretzel. "You should eat," he said. "Long stakeout." "We've been here twelve minutes." "Emotionally it's been much longer." The intel they had gathered was impressive, if deeply embarrassing to explain to anyone. They knew the bounce house occupied the backyard from two until four. They knew the clown, a professional going by the name Sneezy McGuffin, was contractually obligated to perform a forty-minute balloon animal set. They knew the birthday boy's aunt Sharon would drink two rosés and fall asleep on the sectional by three-fifteen, a fact Molly had confirmed personally at a christening, wearing a floral dress, smiling at strangers for four hours, which she had entered into the private ledger she kept under Things Bill Owes Me. "The presents are stacked by the fireplace," Molly said, clicking through photographs. "Gift table is unguarded during the cake portion." "How long is the cake portion?" "Happy Birthday takes eleven seconds. Everything after that is chaos." Bill nodded slowly, jaw working thoughtfully on another pretzel. He had a gift for looking as though he was processing something complex when he was actually thinking about absolutely nothing, and Molly had stopped long ago trying to determine which was which. "We go in through the side gate," she continued, unfolding a hand-drawn diagram of the property that had cost her the better part of a Tuesday. "Across the patio, through the sliding door, grab the loot, out the front. Four minutes maximum." "What if the dog is out there?" "Seventeen dog treats. Left pocket." "What about the kids?" Molly folded the diagram back up with great deliberate care. "Kids," she said, "are watching a man twist balloons into questionable animal shapes. They are not a threat." Bill seemed genuinely reassured, and reached for another pretzel.