Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GHPBSTZPNPW9B5XZ2D9SQ

Molly and Bill crouched behind the hedge of number 42, peering through a gap in the leaves at a back garden exploding with balloons, bunting, and the kind of sugar-fueled mayhem that made adults look hunted. Beyond the fence, a man in a pirate hat was trying to light candles while three children screamed contradictory ages at him. A clown on stilts folded slowly onto a lawn chair like a broken deck chair. On the patio sat a mountain of presents, each wrapped in glossy paper and topped with absurd ribbons that shone like bait. Bill adjusted his flat cap with the solemnity of a safecracker approaching a vault. “I’m telling you,” he whispered, “this is the easiest score of our careers. No lasers. No guards. Just sponge cake and short attention spans.” Molly kept her eyes on the presents. “I don’t like jobs with jelly involved. Sticky surfaces create delays.” “That,” Bill said, “is why you’re the best in the business. You think of the details.” “I think of prison,” Molly said. “Prison and face paint. If a child recognizes me from a wanted poster and I’m dressed as a balloon artist, I shall never recover.” Bill grinned. “That’s why I’m the balloon artist. You’re the caterer.” Molly turned to stare at him. “You put me, a woman with cheekbones famous in three counties, in a hairnet?” “It’s a tasteful apron as well.” “You have no respect for talent.” “I have enormous respect for talent,” Bill said. “That’s why I rented the van.” She followed his thumb to the road where a white van sat with magnetic signs reading Mr. Wobble’s Wonder Parties. One of the signs was slightly crooked, which offended her morally. “Tell me again,” she said. Bill cleared his throat, delighted. “At two-fifteen the magician starts. Every child stares at the rabbit. Every parent stares at their phones. I roll in with balloons, you wheel out the ‘allergy-safe snack hamper.’ We load the presents into the hamper, cover them with carrot sticks no one will touch, and walk straight to the van.” “You forgot one variable.” “What variable?” “The birthday child.” Bill blinked. “What about him?” “They guard presents like dragons with underdeveloped motor control.” Bill considered this, then nodded gravely. “Counterpoint: pass-the-parcel. We create emotional misdirection.” Molly almost smiled. “That’s not bad.” “It’s excellent. I’m full of excellent.” A shriek rose from the garden as a little girl ran past wearing a cardboard crown and one shoe. The pirate-hatted father looked as though he’d aged six years in twelve seconds. Molly exhaled. “I admit the environment is favorable. Chaos, noise, weak perimeter.” “Exactly.” “But if I get pelted with cocktail sausages, I’m leaving you behind.” “Fair.” They ducked lower as the side gate opened and a woman in a sunflower dress stepped out carrying bin bags. She marched to the curb, muttering the kind of dark prophecy reserved for mothers hosting fifteen seven-year-olds. Bill watched her go. “There. Window of entry.” Molly smoothed her jacket and drew from her pocket a folded paper hat decorated with smiling oranges. “I hate that I’m wearing this.” “You look authoritative.” “I look like a woman who says things like ‘fun slices.’” Bill produced a pump and a fistful of balloons. “And I look magical.” “You look inflatable.” He smiled. “Ready?” Molly glanced once more at the glittering pile on the patio. “On one condition.” “Name it.” “No glitter in the van this time.” Bill placed a hand on his heart. “I swear.” “You swore that at Christmas.” “That was festive glitter. Legally distinct.” Molly opened the gate with a professional flick. “Move, balloon man.” Bill puffed up a red balloon as they strode in. “Showtime,” he murmured. Then, louder, in a cheerful voice that made Molly fear him a little, “Who’s ready for surprises?” From the garden came a roar of tiny, merciless approval.