Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HN1TW5W4JCJAX67ZBZ562

Bill looked up from his sandwich as Molly slid into the booth across from him, her eyes bright with the particular gleam that always preceded disaster. She placed a crayon-drawn map on the table between his plate and the salt shaker, smoothing out a wrinkle with the efficiency of a seasoned criminal. The diner around them hummed with the clatter of forks and the hiss of coffee machines, but Bill could only hear the distant sound of his better judgment packing its bags and slipping out the back door. It showed the entire backyard in loving crayon detail. "I have found us the perfect job," she said. Bill studied the map. It appeared to be drawn by a talented kindergartner on the back of a placemat, complete with stick figures and a surprisingly accurate depiction of a bouncy castle. "If it involves clowns, I'm out." She ignored this completely and launched into her pitch. "Children's birthday party. The Henderson kid. Backyard. Saturday. Presents everywhere. It's a target-rich environment, Bill." He set down his sandwich very slowly, as if any sudden movement might cause the universe to collapse. "Molly. We've talked about this. We said no more kids. We said no more juice boxes." But Molly was already deep in logistics, her finger tracing a path across the crayon fence line. "I went undercover. I have details. Weak fence near the compost heap. The mother will be arguing with a caterer about gluten-free options. The father will be fighting with a bounce house. They'll be helpless. I have the patrol patterns of the dog. I have the WiFi password." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that was becoming his primary form of communication. "And the kids?" "Sugar. Chaos. At least one balloon-related meltdown. It's the perfect distraction." He stared at the map. There was a tiny drawing of a unicorn in the corner, surrounded by what appeared to be musical notes or possibly a very small tornado. He traced the crayon path with a weary finger. "What's my role?" She produced a glossy photograph of a giant mouse costume, complete with a disturbingly cheerful face. "You are the entertainment." Bill looked at the photograph. Then at Molly. Then back at the photograph. Then at the photograph one more time, hoping it would change. "I am not wearing a tail." "You're wearing a tail, Bill. And ears. And whiskers. I've already rented it. Non-refundable deposit." He opened his mouth to protest, but she was already explaining the extraction plan, complete with a modified diaper bag on wheels, a false bottom lined with velvet, and a series of distraction routines involving balloon animals. Bill listened with the defeated expression of a man who had long since accepted his fate. She had clearly rehearsed this particular speech. The olive on his plate rolled slightly as he nodded, slowly, in resigned agreement. "Fine," he said at last, reaching for his coffee. "But I'm keeping the unicorn wrapping paper. And the bow tie."