Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCRE7JK0SX70CS00NDY5AX5

The blueprints were drawn on the back of a takeout menu, which Molly had flattened against the dashboard with the heel of her palm. Bill studied them the way a man studies a legal document he intends to ignore. Circles indicated the bouncy castle. An X marked the folding table where the presents would be stacked, glossy and beribboned, unguarded but for a gauntlet of grandmothers. Molly tapped the menu twice. "Piñata at four," she said. "That's our window." Bill nodded, though he was, in fact, thinking about cake. He had been thinking about cake since Tuesday, when the reconnaissance mission—conducted through a hedge with binoculars and a thermos of soup—had revealed a three-tiered dinosaur confection of unusual ambition. A professional does not get distracted. A professional also does not skip lunch. They had costumes. Molly's was a clown suit acquired under circumstances neither of them discussed anymore. Bill's was a dinosaur, which he insisted was thematically appropriate and Molly insisted was two sizes too small, a debate that had consumed most of their planning meetings and all of their goodwill. Outside, balloons bobbed against a mailbox like sentries who had given up. Bill zipped himself in. "Remember," Molly whispered, "no eye contact with the birthday boy."