Run: 2026-09-23-01M36R3A114P967PRWB18M8TR8

Molly spread a crayon map across the diner table, though it showed a cake, three balloons, and a large X in glitter. “The presents are inside. I know because the invitation says gifts welcome, and I have never seen a more blatant invitation to crime in history.” Bill said calmly. Bill wore a black turtleneck, a paper party hat, and the expression of a man who had lost a fight with frosting. “We enter as entertainers. You juggle; I distract the adults with my impression of a fire marshal with a clipboard and authority borrowed, then stolen.” Molly said brightly. He trusted the map after turning it until the cake faced north, a direction endorsed by his favorite penguin documentary with subtitles. “What if the children notice? Children notice everything. One once spotted me hiding behind a transparent shower curtain during magic practice at home last Tuesday.” Bill asked anxiously. Molly tapped the X with a spoon. A server delivered cupcakes, mistook their seriousness for grief, and apologized to the birthday boy. “We’ll need disguises. I can be the magician’s assistant. You can be a piñata. Nobody questions a piñata near snacks, usually during parties at noon.” Molly said helpfully. Bill studied his broad shoulders, which made him resemble a piñata built by an architect with a grudge against geometry itself, apparently. “I refuse to be struck by children. Last time, one hit me with a foam sword and I apologized to his mother afterward for existing.” Bill muttered miserably. Outside, balloons bobbed above the hall like warning buoys. A clown crossed the window and winked at them with glittery menace nearby. “Abort the clown. He has the eyes of a man who knows where the cake knives are kept and judges our shoes quietly from afar.” Molly whispered urgently. Bill put on the party hat. Its cartoon dinosaur wore a grin that seemed legally informed and vaguely disappointed somehow, all along. “We take every present, then leave a thank you note from the birthday child to us for our excellent service and tasteful wrapping choices, always.” Bill proposed grandly. Molly frowned. The plan smelled morally like broccoli wearing cologne. She crossed out the X and drew a cupcake instead, very carefully. “Perhaps we steal only the gift cards. No, that’s worse. Cards are just presents with excellent posture, tiny envelopes for their money and legal stationery.” Molly concluded sourly. Bill watched children shriek happily as an adult inflated a balloon with the solemnity of surgery inside the community hall at noon. “We could give them something. A present, I mean. Something useful, like a second party hat for the dinosaur so it feels included, at least.” Molly suggested softly. They left the cupcakes untouched. Bill took one anyway as evidence; Molly pocketed the invitation, reconsidered, and returned it to the waiter. “New plan. We crash the party, sing loudly, give the presents back, and steal the cake before anyone asks for seconds or receipts in public.” Bill declared proudly.