Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV382CKMG8G9E878TEKEZJ

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the kitchen table, smoothing it flat with the reverence of a surgeon preparing to operate. Bill leaned in, squinting at the crayon-drawn floor plan. "This is the target?" Bill asked. "Four-year-old's birthday party. Theme is dinosaurs." "Molly, this blueprint is drawn in Crayola." "I stole it off the fridge last week when I was posing as the cable guy. It's accurate." Bill traced a shaky purple line with his finger. "What's this supposed to be?" "The bouncy castle." "And this?" "Also the bouncy castle. The kid drew it twice. He's got range." Bill sat back and rubbed his temples, the way a man does when his life choices arrive all at once. Molly was already laying out surveillance photos beside the blueprint, each one showing a pile of gift-wrapped boxes stacked like a cardboard Everest. "There's gotta be eighty presents in that pile," Bill said. "Ninety-three. I counted through the window." "Ninety-three presents for one kid?" "His dad's a dentist. Guilt gifts." Bill whistled low. "Alright. What's our play?" "You're going in as the clown." "Absolutely not." "Bill." "Molly, I have a documented, clinically diagnosed fear of my own reflection in greasepaint. We've been over this." "Then you're the magician." "Better." Molly slid a red nose across the table anyway, just in case. Bill slapped it away like it was a cockroach. "I'll handle the pony," she said. "There's a pony?" "There will be when I show up with one. Kids chase ponies. Ponies create diversions. Diversions create opportunity." "Where are you getting a pony on a Saturday?" "Don't worry about the pony, Bill. The pony is handled." "That's what you said about the ferret at the bar mitzvah." "The ferret was handled. The ferret was, in fact, overhandled." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Clown—magician, sorry—distracts the parents with card tricks. Pony handles the children. Then what?" "Then I back the minivan up to the patio door, and we load the presents into giant garbage bags while singing happy birthday loud enough to cover the rustling." "We sing happy birthday." "In harmony. You take the low part." "I always take the low part." "Because you've got a voice like a foghorn with emotional problems. It's a gift, Bill. Use it." He stared at the ceiling, where a water stain shaped vaguely like regret was slowly spreading. "And if a parent catches us?" "We say we're from the Gift Inspection Service. Due to recent regulations, all presents must be removed for lead testing." "That's not a real thing." "Parents don't know that. Parents will believe anything that sounds like it might save their child's life or their property values." Bill exhaled, long and slow, and picked up the red clown nose. He turned it over in his hand with the solemnity of a man accepting a grenade. "Fine," he said. "But if there's a piñata, I'm taking it personally."