Run: 2026-09-10-01M25DG2P56ACG7GWXG1689F46

Molly unfolded the clown suit with the gravity of a bomb disposal expert. Bill studied the birthday map: pony rides, piñata, cake table, and a mountain of presents guarded by a sugar-crazed mob of seven-year-olds. "We hit during pin the tail," Bill whispered. "Or cake," Molly said. "Frosting makes them slow." Bill nodded, tightening his tiny top hat. The plan was simple. Molly would distract the parents with a magic trick involving a rabbit and a smoke bomb. Bill would creep behind the gift table, sweep every wrapped box into a duffel bag shaped like a teddy bear, then escape through the bouncy castle’s emergency flap. "Balloons?" Bill asked. "Popped," Molly replied. "Panic." They rehearsed their aliases: Uncle Fizz and Auntie Grabby. They practiced apologizing to toddlers. They debated whether stealing a scooter counted as a getaway vehicle. "Cake?" Bill added. The party playlist thumped like a tiny alarm. Somewhere a piñata cracked. Softly. Then a small voice behind them asked if they were the clowns. Molly turned. A birthday girl in a tiara held a list of guests and a whistle. Bill smiled weakly and hid the duffel behind his back. "Improvisation," Molly muttered. Bill sighed. "I hate improv."