Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR93PBXJ8B05SADW4J4N5N

"Right, the birthday girl turns seven at two o'clock sharp." "And the presents?" "Foyer table. Mountain of them, Bill. Glittering." "I've got concerns, Molly." "Name them." "One: I'm forty-three years old." "Not a concern." "Two: it's a children's party. There'll be a magician." "So?" "So magicians *notice things*. It's their whole deal." "He's an amateur named Uncle Trevor and he pulls scarves out of his sleeve like it's 1961." "Fine. Three: how do we get in?" "We're entertainers." "We are not entertainers." "We are today. I'm a clown, you're a pony." "...Say that again." "You're a pony, Bill." "There's no such thing as a pony entertainer, Molly, ponies are just ponies—" "Then be a pony! Stand there! Look majestic!" "I've got a bad hip." "Ponies have bad hips." "Do they?" "Constantly. Now, at half past, I do the balloon animals. Every child in that garden watches me twist a giraffe. You walk—*trot*—into the foyer, load the presents into the saddlebags." "Saddlebags." "I've sewn them myself." "Out of what?" "Curtains." "Molly." "They're *tasteful* curtains." "And if someone asks why the pony is stealing gifts?" "Then you say nothing, Bill, because you're a *pony*." "...I'll need the head by noon."