Run: 2026-09-23-01M36W26DMEVXC46BYED6W7MF1

Molly parked where the banner could judge them. HAPPY BIRTHDAY JASPER had lost a letter to the wind and gained a smear that might have been frosting and might have been a verdict. Minivans filled the lot in various stages of surrender. A man in a rented vest fought balloons that had unionized against him. From the open doors came the shriek of a room given sugar and permission. Bill had found a paper crown in a drive-through bag and wore it like a promotion. "Forty presents. Fifty if the grandparents get competitive." Molly watched the side of the building, where a driver had left a door propped with a brick. "We are not counting presents. We are counting how long a song lasts." "Songs are not a plan." "They are today." A child fogged the glass and vanished into capes. She had spent the drive stripping the afternoon down to its embarrassing bones. Wait for the singing. Take the table. Leave anything attached to a hand. Do not tell a story to anyone under four feet, because children could smell rehearsal. "Kitchen door. When they sing, they face the cake. You take the left pile. I take the right. We meet at the car. No speeches, no clown, no cake." Bill touched the crown. "What if somebody asks who we are?" "We are late. Late explains the crown." "I could do a trick." "You lost a quarter in a drain and called it skill." He took this as he took most weather, which was personally. Another minivan surrendered a tower of dinosaur paper. Molly felt the old tug that had gotten them excused from hardware stores and, once, a petting zoo where the real argument had been about a goat. "The piñata." "Is candy wearing a costume. We are not negotiating with candy." "What if there's a dog?" "Then the dog has a silly name and we are not its problem." A microphone squealed and forgave itself. The song that crawled out was bright and merciless, the kind that made adults clap wrong and call it love. She had picked that noise because a room looking at a cake was a room with its back turned, and she did not own a better idea. Bill's better ideas had a record, mostly involving drains. "What if Jasper sees us?" "We sing. Badly. Walking." "I don't know the words." "Neither does Jasper. That's the whole demographic." "We're rotten, though, Molly." "We're punctual. Don't ruin it now." She killed the engine. The crown sat crooked, which was the most honest thing either of them had managed all week. A balloon tore loose and climbed over the asphalt as if it had somewhere kinder to be. Inside, a child was about to be celebrated by people who had remembered wrapping paper, and two adults who should have known better opened their doors into the noise. Somewhere a parent laughed the laugh of a person who still believed the afternoon belonged to wrapping paper.