Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G2CEW4YBTEJMV8323MTPZ

The back booth of Denny's smelled like burnt coffee and regret, which Molly felt was appropriate for the occasion. She unrolled a napkin across the table and smoothed it flat with the side of her hand, revealing a crayon diagram that looked like it had been drawn by someone mid-stroke. Bill squinted at it. He tilted his head. He tilted it the other way. "Is that the bouncy castle or a uterus?" "It's the bouncy castle, Bill." "Why's it got fallopian tubes?" "Those are the anchor ropes." Bill nodded slowly, the way a man nods when he has accepted that his life has brought him to this exact booth on this exact Tuesday. He reached for his coffee, found it empty, and sighed at the mug as though it had personally betrayed him. The party, Molly explained, was for a nine-year-old named Tanner whose father owned three car dealerships and a boat named *Liquid Assets*. The guest list was forty children, which meant forty gift bags, plus the pile on the present table, which Molly's reconnaissance suggested contained at least two drones, a Nintendo Switch, and something called a Hatchimal that retailed for ninety dollars and could apparently be flipped on eBay for double that before sundown. "Forty kids," Bill said. "Forty screaming, feral, sugar-loaded—" "Which is why we go in during pin-the-tail." "Pin-the-tail." "Blindfolds, Bill. Everyone's blindfolded. Even the parents get into it because there's sangria." Bill considered this. It was, he had to admit, elegant. He had been in this business for twenty-two years, and he had never once considered weaponizing a child's party game, which perhaps said more about his career than he was comfortable examining over an empty mug. "What's my cover?" "Clown." "No." "Bill." "Absolutely not." "You already own the shoes." "Those are orthopedic." Molly slid a photograph across the table. Bill stared down at a wig the color of a traffic cone and made a small, wounded sound. "I'll be the magician," she went on. "I do the disappearing act, except what disappears is the contents of the present table, into a false-bottom steamer trunk, which rolls out to the van during the piñata." "And the piñata is—" "Also full of presents. Smaller ones. Stocking stuffer tier." Bill rubbed his face. A waitress drifted past and refilled his coffee without asking, which he considered the single kindest thing anyone had done for him in months. "One question," he said. "What happens when the kid goes to open presents and there are no presents?" Molly smiled. She had a very specific smile for moments like this, a smile that had, over the years, preceded both their greatest triumphs and their worst felonies, often simultaneously. "We'll be in Ensenada," she said, "and Tanner will be building character." Bill picked up the napkin, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his jacket. "Fine," he said. "But I'm not honking a nose."