Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H5A9QQXYADVDZD5WZAZ225

Molly spread the blueprints across the van's hood, weighted down by two energy drinks and a bag of gummy worms. The community center glowed ahead of them, strung with balloons and fairy lights, radiating the kind of joy that made Bill physically ill. "Twelve clowns," he muttered, studying the guest list they'd lifted from a harried mother's mailbox. "Nobody warned me about clowns." "You'll survive." Molly traced their route with one painted fingernail. Entry through the kitchen at seven-fifteen, when the magic show started and every child in the building would be hypnotized by a man pulling doves from his trousers. The gift table sat unguarded in the lobby, a mountain of colorful wrapping paper and pristine boxes. Bill adjusted his costume, a hot dog suit he'd stolen from a man outside a stadium in 2019. It smelled like regret and relish. "The big one's the bike," Molly said. "Pink, glittery, too heavy to run with." "That's why we brought the wagon." She allowed herself a smile. Six months of casing birthday parties across three counties, and tonight was the crown jewel—little Timmy Henderson's eighth, funded by his recently divorced father's guilt and unlimited credit. Bill sighed, sweating inside the costume. "Happy birthday, kid," he said, and they rolled toward the balloons.