Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPN3PFCSEHGA8J8W7X1XQG

The blueprints spread across the kitchen table were, in fact, a place mat from a Wisconsin diner, but Bill had drawn on it with a red marker and that counted for something. Molly leaned over, chewing a pencil she'd stolen out of habit rather than need, and studied the loops and arrows that supposedly represented the Hendersons' backyard. Fourteen children were expected. There would be a bounce house, a magician of questionable licensure, and, most critically, a folding table stacked with wrapped boxes in colors so bright they'd register on satellite imagery. Bill tapped the map with two fingers. "Piñata's the distraction," he said. Molly nodded slowly. She'd been the one to point out that no child on earth, once handed a bat and permission, could be reasoned with or supervised. Chaos was a resource, and eight-year-olds were an inexhaustible supply of it. She'd already sourced a plumber's van, a laundry cart, and two shirts with a landscaping logo ironed on crooked. The only trouble was the grandmother. There was always a grandmother, immobile in a lawn chair, missing nothing, and Bill had a face she'd remember for decades. Molly slid a sun hat across the table. "You're the aunt," she said.