Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRB7RJVWYWQM2VRKNE17H5

Molly flattened the flyer across the van's hood, smoothing it with the reverence other people reserved for treasure maps. *Tobias Perkins, Age 7, Pirate Party, 2 P.M., No Gifts Necessary.* An outrageous lie. There were always gifts. Suburban grandmothers could not be stopped; they arrived like weather, arms loaded with wrapped rectangles and gift receipts, and by three o'clock the sunroom would be a glittering mountain of untouched merchandise. Bill emerged from the back of the van in full clown regalia, wig askew, one enormous shoe already flapping loose at the toe. "Nobody suspects a clown," he said. Molly studied him the way a surgeon studies an infection. The plan was elegant. Bill would enter through the front, honk, juggle badly, and herd every child into the backyard for balloon animals. Molly, meanwhile, would slip through the side gate with two laundry sacks and clear the sunroom in under ninety seconds. The bouncy castle would drown out any noise. Parents would be filming. Nobody films the presents. "You're allergic to balloons," she reminded him. "Then I'll hold my breath." She handed him a whistle, a bag of streamers, and an EpiPen, which he tucked into his polka-dotted sleeve. "Presents first," Molly said. "Cake second." Bill nodded solemnly. "Deal."