Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ89A3MHVFA73HNQC4EQQWZ

The attic smelled of mothballs and regret. Molly sat cross-legged on a dusty trunk, blueprints spread across her knees like a sacred text. Bill crouched by the tiny dormer window, poking at a rubber chicken with a screwdriver. “You’re telling me,” Molly said, “that our grand entrance is *through a bounce house*?” Bill flipped the chicken. “It’s structurally sound. Inflatable fortresses have been used in warfare since the invention of hot air.” “It’s for seven-year-olds, Bill.” “So was the Trojan Horse. Kids don’t suspect balloons. That’s the genius.” Molly squinted at the blueprint. “And how do we explain two adults crawling out of a giant inflatable gorilla at a Chuck E. Cheese birthday?” “We’re undercover clowns.” “You want me in a rainbow wig?” “Non-negotiable. The alias is *Puddles*. I’m *Snickers*.” Molly groaned. “I am *not* wearing nose grease.” “Health code’s tighter than you think. They do random clown inspections. Last guy failed because his shoes weren’t squeaky enough.” “So we’re breaking into a party full of cupcakes, piñatas, and squeaky shoes.” “Exactly. And every gift bag is ours. Cash, gift cards, maybe a Nintendo Switch. Kids don’t appreciate the value of loot.” “How do we know they even brought presents?” “Molly, it’s a birthday. Parents are desperate to prove they’re fun. They buy too much stuff and wrap it in paper with dinosaurs riding motorcycles. It’s our bread and butter.” “But the *bounce house*—” “Distraction tactic. You crawl in during the limbo contest. Everyone’s watching Jimmy try to bend without dislocating a hip. I’ll be behind the snack table—” “You’re hitting the snack table?” “It’s camouflage. I’m blending in as *Custard the Snack-Time Servant*. They’ve got a whole rotating cast of costumed staff.” “How do you even know this?” “Scouted it. Pretended to be a dad with triplets.” “You don’t have triplets.” “Neither did the real dad. We bonded over juice boxes. Told me the cake’s shaped like a unicorn vomiting rainbows.” Molly paused. “That’s… oddly specific.” “Told you—research. Also, the presents are piled near the ball pit. Attendants check every adult who goes near it.” “So I go near it.” “In a giant chicken costume.” “Why a chicken?” “Themed party. *Cluck Norris Dojo*. They’re doing karate. Kids break boards with foam nunchucks.” Molly rubbed her temples. “Of course they are.” “I’ll sneak the loot into chicken-sized totes. You waddle out during the musical chairs. Collapse dramatically when the music stops. Everyone thinks you’re part of the act.” “I’m going to *fake faint* in a chicken suit?” “Emotionally exhausting, yes, but effective. Kids love it when clowns die.” “They do not!” “Saw a guy get three rounds of applause after faking a heart attack. A five-year-old gave him a gold star.” Molly sighed. “And when the real chicken shows up?” “We’ll say you’re the *mystery guest performer*. Bill the Beak. It’s foolproof.” “What if someone checks my beak?” “Then you bite them. Distraction. I grab the presents. We regroup at the inflatable slide.” “You’ve thought of everything.” “Almost. One more thing.” Molly looked up. “What?” “We have to learn the birthday song. In harmony.” Molly blinked. “Why?” “If we’re caught, we start singing. No one suspects heartfelt singing.” “That’s the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.” “Dumb enough to work.”