Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GW02PA76J4G6KXY9SF4158

Molly crouched behind a hydrangea bush, binoculars raised, while Bill unfolded a laminated map with the gravity of a four-star general. Beyond the fence, a bouncy castle wheezed like a dying accordion. "Target acquired," she whispered. "Twelve kids, one exhausted clown." Bill tapped the map solemnly. "Security?" "A golden retriever named Biscuit. Licked me twice on recon." "Weak perimeter. I'm the balloon guy. You take gifts during the cake melee." Molly lowered her binoculars slowly, the way one does when reevaluating a lifetime of questionable choices. "Bill, it's a seven-year-old's birthday party." "Crime doesn't age-discriminate." "You're wearing a fake mustache to steal a Barbie Dreamhouse." He adjusted it with the dignity of a man who would not be mocked. "You're forty-eight and unemployed. You are the disguise." Bill stabbed the map with one finger. "Phase one: distract the clown with questions about his life choices. Phase two: presents in cargo shorts. Phase three: exfiltrate via slip-and-slide." Across the lawn, Biscuit bounded past, blissfully unbothered by crime. Molly sighed. "Fine. If the clown cries again, we leave." "He cried because I asked if he regretted everything," Bill said, wounded. "That's on him." Somewhere beyond the hydrangea bush, the clown honked mournfully.