Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KAXK0NXT2YDPWHED12RT1F

The helium tank hissed like a deflating rubber chicken, and Molly held her breath until the last of the shimmering silver balloon collapsed into a sad, wrinkled heap. She nodded at Bill, who was jiggling the combination lock on the back gate of the Rosenblatts’ sprawling backyard. The lock, a glittery number shaped like a unicorn, had already cost them eleven minutes and one broken nail. “There,” Bill whispered, turning the dial one last time. “It’s open. Elmer’s glue in the keyhole. Great trick.” “Elmer’s glue,” Molly repeated, shoving the balloon tatters into a party-favor sack. “That’s our secret weapon. The glue of childhood.” “And shame.” Bill pushed the gate inward, and the sweet, cloying stench of bubblegum and fruit punch rolled over them. A bouncy castle deflated on the lawn like a sad, pillowcase whale. The party was in full swing inside, but the gift table sat out in the open, guarded by a spiral of crepe paper and a pigeon who had clearly given up on life. “Thirty minutes,” Molly said, checking her watch. “One more round of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, then cake, then the stampede for the presents. We go in when they open the ice cream.” “What if they do the piñata first?” Bill asked. “Chop them. “Then we do the presents.” “And the poodle?” “There is no poodle.” “There’s always a poodle.” Molly ignored him, already slinking forward, her flat-soled shoes whispering over Astroturf. The back window of the kitchen threw a warm rectangle of light onto the grass, inside which a woman in a cat-print apron was arranging carrot sticks into a smiley face. Molly crouched under the table’s edge, scanning the loot: a rainbow-colored xylophone, three enormous teddy bears, a glow-in-the-dark telescope, and a suspiciously shiny red bicycle with training wheels. “The bike,” Bill murmured. “That’s two hundred, at least.” “The bike is too loud,” Molly said. “It’ll have a bell.” “Get the cab.” “We get the telescope. Good resale. And the owl pillow.” There was a pause. Bill was staring at the bicycle, a faraway look in his eyes. “I had a bike like that. When I was eight. My dad tightened the chain so many times it snapped one afternoon, and I went face-first into a hedge.” “That’s a lovely story, Bill. Focus.” “My point is, the bike is nostalgia. The kids don’t need nostalgia. they’ll lose that telescope by Friday. I’m taking the bike. I’ll trade it for a knighthood.” “You’re not taking the bike.” “I’m taking the bike.” “Bill, the bike has a bell.” “I’ll ride it this way.” “You aren’t riding a stolen bicycle through the woods in a crepe crown,” she hissed, but Polly—Bill—had already slid under the table. From the back door, a tiny, four-year-old voice piped up: “Hey, where’s the ice cream?” “Not yet, darling,” the mother called from the family room. “You get it after presents.” Molly froze. So did Bill. The carriage of the bike tipped against the table leg, jangling a plastic bell with a cheerful *ring-ring*. The entire party went quiet. Bill looked at Molly. Molly looked at Bill, then at the rows of dangling party hats and the single balloon that had survived their earlier sabotage. The pigeon on the Brit of the table tilted its head, as if to say Well, now what? “Okay,” Molly said, stuffing the telescope into her sack. “You grab the bike. I’ll handle the kids.” “How?” “I’ll tell them we’re the first responders of the ice cream emergency.” Bill blinked. “But we are.” “Exactly. It’s called lying.” She stood up, adjusting her collar, and a passing toddler pointed at her. “That’s not the clown,” the toddler said. Molly smiled. “I’m the better clown. Now—where’s the ice cream?”