Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRC93M8XTXTJ7CFPRJVG7S

Molly spread the blueprint across the hood of the van, which was really just a napkin with a bouncy castle drawn on it. "Bounce house here," she said. "Piñata here. Presents stacked on the folding table, unguarded, like fruit in Eden." "There'll be parents," Bill said. "There'll be *sangria*. By two o'clock they won't be able to identify their own children, let alone us." "And the birthday boy? Kids notice things." "Kids are the least credible witnesses on earth. Last year a six-year-old told police I was nine feet tall and made of spaghetti." Bill chewed his thumbnail. "I still say we go in as clowns." "We are not going in as clowns." "Nobody looks a clown in the eye, Molly. It's basic psychology." "Nobody *hires* a clown anymore either. It's magicians now. Balloon animals. Sad men with doves." "I can do a dove." "You have a pigeon in a shoebox." "He's got range." Molly folded the napkin and tucked it into her jacket. "You'll be Uncle Terry. Nobody knows who Uncle Terry is, and everyone's too polite to ask. You carry the gifts to the car because you're 'organizing.'" Bill brightened. "And you?" "I'll be crying by the buffet. Parents avoid crying women like landmines."