Run: 2026-09-23-01M36WE8B6NKAKT17SZSGDANXB

Molly parked the van where the maple tree cut the view in half and pretended that counted as camouflage. The Henderson party had already reached the volume of a small weather event. Streamers clapped against the fence. Beside the sliding door, presents made a bright, careless mountain. Bill held a crayon map against the dash. The pool was a blue oval. The gift table was a square he had labeled loot with the confidence of a man who had never successfully labeled anything. "Thirty kids," he said, then caught himself and lowered his voice, as if the clown might be wired. "One cake. Gifts by the door. We go when they sing." Molly did not look at him. She watched a woman ferry cupcakes like contraband and a man in face paint wrestle a balloon into the shape of an animal that had given up. Singing was the only window. Candles pulled every eye. Hands found cake. Nobody counted boxes while a child made a wish they would forget by Tuesday. Bill nodded too fast. His knee had its own agenda. They had tried this once in her kitchen, pillows for packages, a bowl of oranges for the getaway. The oranges had escaped under the refrigerator and were presumably living new lives. The plan had stayed, thin and ridiculous and, unfortunately, theirs. Neither of them mentioned how badly the oranges had gone. "Side fence," he offered. "Front gate squeaks. I checked with a stick." "A polite stick," Molly said, "does not make you a guest." She tapped the wheel. "Leave the grandma paper. Guilt is sewn into those folds. Take the games and the heavy one." "What if the heavy one is a book." "Then we become literate on the way out." "And if the uncle at the cooler asks what we are doing?" "We are looking for the bathroom." "The bathroom is not a pile of presents." "Then we got lost." He huffed a laugh he did not fully authorize. The clown tied off a giraffe and scanned the yard. Molly felt the old, stupid lift in her chest. "On the candles," she said. "You grab. I keep the van ugly and ready. If the clown clocks you, you are a dad. Hold a juice box like it owes you an apology. Nod. Do not wave. Waving is evidence." Bill swallowed. "I can nod." "Good. If anyone asks, Chad invited us." "Chad is six." "Chad has vision," she said, and almost believed it. The street stayed empty, which felt like permission. The birthday song rose, crooked and thin and exactly on time. Molly's hand found the key and stayed there. Bill cracked his door the width of a confession. In the pile of paper, one gold bow caught the sun and flashed, friendly as a trap. The clown's eyes slid toward the street. For a moment the giraffe seemed to point at them. Molly breathed out through her teeth, counted the presents she could see, and decided not to decide.