Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NW4FVDFT9878FGN5AP5P9

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas, peering through a gap in the fence at the backyard beyond. Balloons bobbed from every chair. A banner announced HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, OSCAR! in letters so cheerful they felt like a personal insult. Bill lay beside her in a black turtleneck, black gloves, and a paper party hat he had stolen from the front porch. “Take that off,” Molly whispered. “No,” Bill said. “It’s camouflage.” “You look like a depressed wizard at a bakery.” “I look festive. Festive people don’t get questioned.” “You’re wearing night-vision goggles.” “They’re party-vision goggles.” Molly sighed and unfolded a crayon-drawn map on the grass. It showed the yard, the patio, the bouncy castle, and a large red X over the present table. “Objective,” she said, tapping the X. “Gifts. We slip in during musical chairs, load everything into the wagon, exit through the side gate.” Bill squinted. “What’s that blue square?” “That’s the kiddie pool.” “And the green blob?” “The clown.” Bill went pale. “There’s a clown?” “There’s always a clown.” “You said this was a low-risk job.” “It is. The guests are under four feet tall and distracted by frosting.” “Clowns are never low risk, Molly. They have policies. They have pockets.” Across the yard, a man in rainbow suspenders bent over to make a balloon giraffe. The result looked like a sausage accident. Molly checked her watch. “Three minutes until cake. Once they sing, we move.” “What about the dog?” “What dog?” A golden retriever trotted past the fence with a superhero cape tied around its neck and a look of extreme professional interest. “That dog,” Bill said. Molly froze. The dog stopped. Its nose twitched. Its tail wagged once, thoughtfully. “Do not engage,” Molly whispered. “I’m very engaging.” “That is the problem.” The dog barked. Instantly, three children rushed over. “Puppy! What is it, Captain Waffles?” Bill smiled through the fence. “Hello, tiny citizens.” Molly elbowed him. A little girl pointed. “There’s people in the bushes!” Molly sprang up, snatched Bill by the collar, and shoved open the gate as if she had meant to do that all along. “Surprise!” she cried. The yard went quiet. Parents stared. Children stared. The clown stared with ancient, painted suspicion. Bill adjusted his party hat. “We are the… gift inspectors.” “The what?” asked a boy with chocolate on his forehead. “Gift inspectors,” Molly said smoothly. “Very official. We ensure presents meet birthday standards.” A mother narrowed her eyes. “Who hired you?” Bill raised a finger. “The mayor of birthdays.” “The mayor is six,” said the mother. “Exactly,” Bill said. “Very progressive administration.” Oscar, the birthday boy, approached them holding a plastic sword. “Do you have badges?” Molly reached into her pocket and produced two gold stickers shaped like stars. She slapped one onto her jacket and one onto Bill’s chest. “Badges,” she said. Oscar considered this. “Okay. Inspect mine first.” He led them to the present table. It sagged under bright packages, ribbons, and possibility. Molly’s eyes gleamed. Bill’s hands hovered. “Careful,” she murmured. “Professional.” Bill picked up a box wrapped in dinosaurs. “This one feels suspiciously fun.” “Confiscate it.” “For safety.” “For safety.” Oscar frowned. “Why are you putting it in that wagon?” Molly looked down. Bill had already loaded six presents into a red wagon labeled OSCAR’S STUFF, DO NOT TOUCH. “Testing the wheels,” Bill said. “The wheels are on the wagon,” Oscar said. “A very advanced child,” Bill muttered. Captain Waffles barked again and seized the wagon handle in his mouth. With one heroic tug, he dragged it across the lawn toward the bouncy castle. “Stop that dog!” Molly shouted. “I don’t outrank him!” Bill shouted back. The wagon hit the castle entrance and flipped. Presents burst everywhere. Children cheered, assuming this was planned. Wrapping paper exploded under small hands. Boxes opened. A robot dinosaur roared. A bubble machine began coughing foam. Someone activated a drum set. Within seconds, the party became a tiny carnival riot. The suspicious mother crossed her arms. “Gift inspectors, huh?” Molly brushed bubbles from her sleeve. “We’ve concluded the gifts are excellent.” Bill nodded, holding a stuffed penguin that had somehow acquired his goggles. “Top marks. No theft necessary.” Oscar pointed his sword at them. “You have to stay for cake.” Molly glanced at the gate, then at the clown, who was now silently making a balloon handcuff. Bill leaned close. “New plan?” Molly watched Captain Waffles sit proudly atop the ruined wagon, tail wagging like a metronome of justice. “New plan,” she said. “We eat cake, apologize to the dog, and retire from crime until at least Tuesday.”