Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZV3HEJ1SBKEM3W8KCYZCNS

Molly spread the blueprint across the folding card table, weighing down the corners with a juice box, a half-eaten granola bar, and two decorative ceramic frogs she'd stolen from a dentist's office last Tuesday. The fourth corner kept curling up, so she placed her elbow on it and glared at Bill, who was eating cereal directly from the box. "This is the layout of the Pemberton residence," she said. "Twin boys. Turning seven. Combined guest list of approximately forty-two children." Bill crunched thoughtfully. "Forty-two kids is a lot of kids, Molly." "Forty-two kids is forty-two times the presents, Bill." He considered this, then nodded, because the math was compelling. The Pemberton twins, according to Molly's meticulous research, were being celebrated with a pirate-themed extravaganza featuring a bounce house, a balloon artist named Señor Flamingo, and a rented pony whose name was, inexplicably, Jeff. The cake alone cost more than Bill's car. The presents, stacked on a long buffet table near the rose garden, were rumored to include three Nintendo Switches, a remote-control helicopter, and something Molly's informant had described only as "the big one." "What's the big one?" Bill asked. "I don't know. That's what's exciting about it." "Could be a pony." "They already have a pony. His name is Jeff." "Could be another pony." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. She had been working with Bill for six years, and roughly forty percent of that time had been spent explaining to Bill that not everything could be a pony. The plan, she explained, was elegant in its stupidity, which was the only kind of elegance Bill could reliably execute. They would arrive disguised as entertainers: Molly as a face painter, Bill as a clown. During the piñata sequence — which Molly had identified as the window of maximum chaos — they would slip around to the buffet table, load the presents into two enormous laundry bags disguised as pirate treasure sacks, and walk out the side gate to the waiting van, which Bill had painted to look like an ice cream truck. "The van plays music," Bill said, proudly. "The van plays one song, Bill, and it's the theme from Jaws." "Kids love Jaws." "Kids have never seen Jaws." Bill shrugged, unbothered, crunching another fistful of cereal. He had the unshakable confidence of a man who had never been correct about anything. Molly tapped the blueprint. "The key is Señor Flamingo. He's the only real professional in the building. If he makes us, we're done. He used to work for Cirque du Soleil." "What happened?" "Unclear. Something with a trapeze." Bill whistled, low and respectful. He respected anybody who had problems with a trapeze. "So we're clear on the plan?" "Face paint. Clown. Piñata. Presents. Jaws." "Perfect." Outside, somewhere in the distance, a child was already screaming about balloons, and Molly took it as a blessing.