Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCQW355RTT1GP5FQMK9YKN2

Molly spread the blueprint across the hood of the van. It was a napkin. "That's the bouncy castle," she said, tapping a grease stain. "That's the piñata. And that, Bill, is our exit." "It's a hedge." "It's a *tactical* hedge." Bill lowered his binoculars. Twenty-three children were currently orbiting a folding table stacked with glittering, ribboned loot. "There's a clown," he said. "So?" "I don't like clowns, Moll. They've got no tells. You can't read a face that's already painted." "You're forty-six." "Trauma doesn't check ID." She handed him a party hat and a plastic trumpet. He stared at them the way other men stare at divorce papers. "Blend in," she said. "Nobody suspects a man having fun." "Nobody's ever suspected me of that in my life." "Sing 'Happy Birthday.' Loudly. While I reverse the van to the gift table." "And if the mother asks whose parent I am?" "Say you're Uncle Gary. Every family has an Uncle Gary nobody invited." Bill sighed, snapping the elastic under his chin. "One hour. Then we're gone." "Ninety seconds," Molly corrected, starting the engine. "We're professionals." The clown turned, slowly, and looked directly at the van. Bill whimpered. "He knows."