Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HGJ8G22ERD1300MEDYWXT

Molly flattened the crayon-splattered invitation on the café table and grinned like a wolf in a gift shop. Outside, rain needled the windows; inside, Bill stared at the words Princess Pony Pizza Palace and looked faintly ill. “Children’s party?” Bill whispered. “That’s your masterstroke?” “Focus,” Molly said. “Twenty-seven presents, all tagged, all portable, all guarded by adults distracted by frosting and regret.” “I don’t like balloons,” Bill muttered. “They watch you.” “They’re latex, not detectives.” “And the magician?” “Half the room will be staring at a rabbit with anxiety. We go in as entertainers, collect the gifts, vanish before cake.” Bill rubbed his jaw. “What entertainers?” “Balloon artists.” “You just said balloons weren’t detectives.” “They’re also alibis.” He sighed. “I can’t make a sword.” “You don’t need to. Smile sadly and call it a dachshund.” Bill leaned closer. “What if a child asks for a unicorn?” “Then improvise a horse having a crisis.” He glanced at the invitation again. “And if parents get suspicious?” Molly tapped the schedule. “At two-fifteen, the birthday girl hits the piñata. Chaos. Screaming. Sugar. You wheel out the ‘gift safety cart.’ I mournfully twist dachshunds.” Bill brightened. “We’re stealing from toddlers with office supplies.” Molly raised her teacup. “Bill, that’s professionalism.”