Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPV6B19S0BRHC6WD55KX3N

Molly spread the birthday invitation across the hood of the van like a battle map, smoothing its glittery creases with the reverence of a general. Bill leaned in, chewing a licorice whip, squinting at the cartoon dinosaur that guarded the entrance to Little Tommy Perkins's eighth year of life. The party would begin at two. According to Molly's reconnaissance — three afternoons parked outside the Perkins residence, eating gas station sandwiches — the presents would be piled on a folding table beneath a banner, unguarded, sixteen feet from an unlocked side gate. She had counted the gifts arriving over the years and calculated an average haul: fourteen boxes, two gift bags, and one envelope containing what she estimated to be forty dollars in cash from a grandmother. Bill was less enthusiastic. He had a nephew. He had, in fact, been to this very sort of gathering, and he remembered the particular sound a child made when something belonging to it went missing. "They're kids, Molly." "They're insured." He looked at her. "Their parents are insured," she clarified, folding the invitation into her jacket. "Emotionally. They have more children." Bill sighed and pulled the clown wig down over his ears, and the van rolled toward the cul-de-sac.