Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2HZTWESKGG57GZ4S9QH250

“I’m telling you, Bill, the golden ticket is the pinata,” Molly said, pacing the length of the rusted van. “Not the presents. The pinata.” Bill squinted at the spreadsheet taped to the windshield. “But the loot bag has Pokémon cards. Mint condition. And the birthday girl’s mom is a dentist—there’s going to be those little floss picks shaped like sharks. We could fence those for, like, three bucks a pop on Etsy.” “We’re not here to finance your retirement fund with novelty dental hygiene. The pinata is full of chocolate coins wrapped in actual gold foil. We melt those down, we’re talking a solid two ounces.” “Gold foil isn’t gold, Molly. It’s aluminum with a yellow-ish attitude.” “Well, your attitude is yellow-ish. Straight up chicken. Look, the plan is beautiful. The party starts at two. I go in as ‘Aunt Gertrude from Florida’—I’ve got the sundress, the fanny pack, the picture of a manatee I claim is my husband.” “You don’t have a husband.” “I have a laminated manatee. Close enough. I blend in, eat some cake, compliment the balloons. While I’m causing a distraction, you slip in through the back gate, grab the pinata, and we make a clean exit through the hedge maze the dad built.” Bill rubbed his neck. “Why do I have to go through the hedge maze? I’m not a Labradoodle. I’ll get lost in there with the whispering leaves and the dead ends—that’s a metaphor for my life, Molly.” “Bill, you’re the one who insisted on the monogrammed crowbar. You want to use it, you have to navigate some topiary.” “It’s not a crowbar, it’s a ‘gift opening tool.’ I had it engraved. ‘For Uncle Bill’s special presents.’” “That makes it worse. That makes it look like you’re a weird uncle who steals presents.” “I am a weird uncle who steals presents! That’s the whole gig!” Molly stopped pacing and jabbed a finger at the party invitation. “Listen. The pinata is scheduled for three-fifteen. We strike at three-twelve. The parents will be arguing over who has to clean up the glitter. The kids will be sugared up and spiraling into a group tantrum about who gets the good lollipop. It’s the perfect window.” “And what’s my exit strategy after I grab the pinata? Through the bounce house?” “You take the service alley behind the grill. The dad is a charcoal purist—he’ll be too busy fanning a fire that doesn’t exist. You break into a run, I meet you at the ice cream truck. We swap vehicles. I’ll be the one in the shark costume.” “Shark costume? Since when do we have a shark costume?” “Since I bought it off a man who used to be a mascot for a failed water park. It smells like tears and chlorine. Perfect for blending in at a kids’ party. No one questions a shark at a birthday.” Bill sighed. “Fine. But if I end up stuck in that hedge maze with a pinata and a crying toddler asking me where her mommy is, I’m naming you as my accomplice on the police report.” “You can’t name me. I’ll be an unnamed shark fleeing the scene. That’s the beauty of it.”