Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8X8WW6YYFQP8QK1CAQAP13

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the van, smoothing out a wrinkle that bisected what appeared to be a bouncy castle. Bill leaned over her shoulder, squinting. "Walk me through it again," Bill said. "And this time, try not to make it sound like we're storming Normandy." "Fine. The party starts at two. We arrive at one forty-five disguised as balloon artists. Nobody questions balloon artists, Bill. They're like plumbers but happier." "I can't make balloon animals." "You don't have to make balloon animals. You just have to carry a bag of uninflated balloons and look whimsical." Bill scratched his chin. "I don't think I've ever looked whimsical in my life." "Then this will be a growth experience for you." Molly tapped the map with a pen. "The presents will be stacked here, on a folding table near the back fence. Based on the Facebook event page, we're looking at roughly thirty kids, which means thirty presents minimum. Some overachievers will bring two. We could be talking about forty gifts, Bill. Forty." "What kind of gifts are we expecting here? Because last time you said the take would be impressive and I ended up with six copies of Candy Land and a hamster." "The hamster was a bonus. You loved that hamster." "The hamster bit me every single day for two years." "That's how hamsters show love. Now focus. The birthday boy's father is a dentist, which means this is an upper-middle-class affair. We're talking premium Lego sets. Name-brand action figures. Possibly a bicycle with a bow on it." Bill's eyes widened slightly. "A bicycle?" "With a bow on it. You see why I brought this to you." "Who's running security?" Molly checked her notes. "The mom. Sandra. She's five-foot-two, runs a book club, and based on her online reviews, she has strong opinions about scented candles. I think we can handle Sandra." "What about the dad?" "He'll be manning the grill. No man has ever left a grill during a party, Bill. It's a biological impossibility. He is neutralized by charcoal." "And the kids?" "What about the kids?" "They're witnesses, Molly." "They're six. Who's going to believe them? Half of them still think the moon follows their car." Bill folded his arms and stared at the bouncy castle on the map. "How do we extract the presents?" "I back the van up to the fence at exactly two-thirty during the magic show. Every child will be watching a man pull a rabbit from a hat. You load the gifts. I drive. We're gone before the first kid cries." "What if the magician is bad and the kids lose interest early?" Molly paused. She hadn't considered this. "Then we improvise." "Improvise," Bill repeated flatly. "That's what separates professionals from amateurs." Bill sighed and pulled a deflated balloon from the supply bag, holding it between two fingers like evidence at a crime scene. "I want the bicycle," he said. "Done."