Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HV3B8SPB79YJDCCW8THR1

Molly crouched behind the hedge, studying the suburban garden where balloons bobbed like surveillance blimps and a clown shaped suspiciously like despair folded dogs for shrieking children. Bill adjusted his flat cap and peered over her shoulder at the mountain of brightly wrapped presents stacked beneath a banner screaming HAPPY SEVENTH, OLIVER. “Tell me again,” Bill whispered, “why we’re robbing a child instead of someone with a yacht?” “Because,” Molly said, “people with yachts hire guards. People with bouncy castles hire magicians.” “That clown looks mean.” “That clown looks unemployed.” A paper hat sailed past on the breeze and landed on Bill’s nose. He frowned at it like it had insulted his ancestry. “I still say the jelly table is a tactical nightmare.” “We avoid the jelly table.” “And the pony?” “We charm the pony.” Bill watched a herd of children stampede after bubbles. “You ever feel morally complicated?” “Constantly,” said Molly. “That’s why I dress well.” From the patio came the mother’s voice, distracted and desperate, counting juice boxes like a general losing a war. “Signal?” Bill asked. Molly nodded toward the chaos. “When the magician sets his sleeve on fire.” “That specific?” “He’s sweating confetti. It’s inevitable.” Right on cue, a child screamed with delight, smoke puffed upward, and parents surged toward the patio. “Showtime,” Molly said. Bill grinned. “For the presents, and possibly the pony.” “Not the pony.” “We’ll discuss it while running.”