Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1J20NWSTMW262XD7HDS2G5

Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the table, smoothing out a corner sticky with what she hoped was jam. "Okay, here's the situation," she said. "Forty-seven children, one bouncy castle, and approximately three hundred wrapped presents." Bill leaned over the map, squinting. "Three hundred? For one kid?" "It's the Pemberton boy. His father owns half the city. The invitation said 'no gifts necessary,' which in rich-people language means 'bring something expensive.'" "And the security?" Molly tapped a red X near the kitchen. "One magician, one clown, and a woman they're calling 'Auntie Carol' who I believe is ex-military." "A clown," Bill repeated flatly. "I hate clowns." "Everyone hates clowns, Bill. That's not a personality." He crossed his arms. "It's a perfectly valid fear. Did you know clowns can run faster than they look? Those shoes are deceptive." "Focus. We go in dressed as entertainers. I'm a face-painter, you're a balloon-animal artist." Bill's face fell. "I don't know how to make balloon animals." "How hard can it be? Twist, squeak, done." "It's an art form, Molly! There are years of apprenticeship—" "You watched one video this morning, didn't you?" He looked away. "I made something. It was supposed to be a giraffe." "What did it become?" "A very long sausage. The dog one looked like a different, smaller sausage." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. You're a mime now. Mimes don't make anything." "Mimes pretend to be trapped in boxes." "Then you'll be excellent at it, because you're trapped in this plan with me. Here's the play—at exactly two o'clock, they cut the cake. Sugar high hits the kids around two-fifteen. That's our window." Bill perked up. "Chaos." "Beautiful, screaming chaos. While Auntie Carol's distracted breaking up a juice-box dispute, we load the presents into the van disguised as the pony from the petting zoo." "We're disguising a van as a pony?" "We're disguising the van's *purpose*. The van says 'Pony Express Party Rentals.' Nobody questions a pony van." "That's surprisingly solid." "I have my moments." She rolled up the map. "Any questions?" Bill raised a hand like a schoolchild. "What if a kid recognizes that I'm not a real mime?" "Bill, they're six. Their threat assessment is built around whether broccoli is touching their chicken nuggets. You'll be fine." "And the clown?" Molly sighed. "I'll handle the clown." "How?" "I'll offer him a job. Clowns are always one bad birthday away from a life of crime." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "Now repeat the plan back to me." Bill cleared his throat. "Two o'clock, cake. Two-fifteen, sugar meltdown. I mime silently while you paint tiny butterflies on screaming children. We load three hundred presents into a fake pony. We retire to a beach." "You added the beach." "I'm manifesting it." Molly almost smiled. "You know, for a man terrified of clowns and incapable of making a balloon dog, you've got the heart of a true professional." Bill beamed. "That was an insult, Bill." "I'm choosing to ignore that part."