Run: 2026-05-31-01KSYXG87K0N7G1Y6Q4X3HRBPG

Molly spread the blueprint across the table, smoothing its wrinkles with theatrical reverence. "Behold. The Hendersons' backyard. Site of our greatest triumph." "It's a drawing of a swing set," Bill said. "It's a drawing of *opportunity*, Bill." She tapped the page. "Tommy Henderson turns seven on Saturday. Do you know what that means?" "That we've hit rock bottom?" "It means presents. Mountains of them. Wrapped, ribboned, and completely unguarded except by adults who'll be distracted by a clown." Bill leaned back, arms crossed. "There's a clown?" "There's always a clown." "I hate clowns." "Everyone hates clowns. That's why nobody watches them. We slip past during the magic show, grab the gift table, and vanish before they cut the cake." Bill picked up a juice box she'd inexplicably placed on the table and studied it like evidence. "And how exactly do two grown adults blend into a seven-year-old's birthday party?" Molly grinned and produced two enormous bunny costumes from a duffel bag. "We don't blend in. We become entertainment." "Absolutely not." "Bill—" "I have my dignity." "You stole a piggy bank from a Chuck E. Cheese last month." "That was different. The piggy bank had it coming." He held up the costume by one floppy ear, frowning. "These smell like regret and cotton candy." "They smell like *success*." She stuffed his into his arms. "Look, you wear the suit, you wave, you hand out balloons. The parents think you're hired help. Meanwhile, I'm loading presents into the van shaped like an ice cream truck." "We have an ice cream truck now?" "Rented. Plays a delightful little tune." Bill rubbed his temples. "This is the worst plan you've ever proposed, and last year you wanted to rob a bank using carrier pigeons." "The pigeons would have worked if they were loyal." Molly waved this away. "Focus. The kids are the real threat here. They're small, they're fast, and they have zero respect for personal space. If one of them figures out we're not real bunnies, it's over." "So we're afraid of children now." "You should always be afraid of children. They smell fear. And jelly." Bill sighed, the sound of a man who had run out of better options sometime around his thirties. "What's the take? Realistically." "Action figures. A bicycle, probably. Some cash in envelopes from grandparents who never know what to buy." She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "And rumor has it, Tommy's getting a *gaming console*." "A console." Bill's resistance visibly cracked. "Sealed? In the box?" "Pristine." He was quiet a moment. Then he picked up the bunny head and turned it slowly in his hands like a tragic prince contemplating a skull. "If I do this," he said, "I'm not hopping." "You'll have to hop a little." "I will not hop, Molly." "The character is *defined* by the hopping." Bill jammed the bunny head on with grim finality, his voice now muffled and full of doom. "I'm going to hate every second of this." "That's the spirit," Molly beamed. "Now let's go ruin a child's birthday."