Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR2W3NSNACT37T51QTMWJ3

The blueprint was a pizza placemat, grease-translucent, mapped in crayon. Molly weighted its corners with salt shakers and tapped the crooked rectangle she had labeled TARGET. Present table. Northeast corner of the Hendersons' backyard, beneath a canopy of streamers, guarded by nothing more formidable than a woman named Deb and a sheet cake shaped like a dinosaur. Sixty gifts, minimum. Wrapped, ribboned, wholly untraceable. A birthday was the only occasion in the civilized world where merchandise sat stacked in plain sight and nobody kept a receipt. Bill arrived at the booth in full costume: rainbow wig, red nose, shoes like two capsized canoes. "Nobody suspects a clown," he said. Molly stared at him for a long, arithmetic moment. "Everybody suspects a clown, Bill." She rolled the placemat and explained the plan again, slower, using the salt shakers as figurines. Bill would enter at two-fifteen, during the piñata, when forty children would be blindfolded, armed, and swinging wildly. Chaos as cover. Molly would idle the minivan by the alley gate with the sliding door open and a bag of juice boxes for credibility. Bill nodded, honking his nose thoughtfully. The wig, Molly decided, could stay.