Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ09F965F04T80K1DY3PGKXS

Molly pressed her binoculars against the rain-streaked van window, studying the backyard extravaganza like a general surveying a battlefield. A bouncy castle inflated in the corner like a garish tumor. Streamers fluttered from every tree. A clown twisted latex into swords and poodles while children shrieked around her. "Count the presents," Molly whispered. Bill squinted through his own pair, lips moving as he tallied the colorful mountain beside the punch bowl. "Forty-seven. Maybe fifty with the small ones." Fifty presents. That was a serious haul. The birthday boy, some kid named Timmy Henderson, had wealthy parents with questionable taste and unlimited credit cards. The gift table literally sagged under the weight of electronics, designer toys, and one box big enough to contain a bicycle. Molly pulled back, rubbing fog from the lenses. They had hit mansions, museums, and one memorable pharmaceutical warehouse, but never a children's party. The security was nonexistent. The moral ambiguity was significant. "We go in as the caterers," she said. "Through the side gate?" Molly nodded, cracking her knuckles. The plan was elegant. Every single parent there was three glasses of chardonnay past paying attention. The clown was the only wildcard, and clowns were notoriously unobservant.