Run: 2026-09-23-01M37NWWBKMKX3W8MF2DHZB9SP

Molly crouched behind a bouncy castle that wheezed like an asthmatic accordion, surveying the backyard through binoculars she'd stolen from a birdwatcher last spring. "Bill," she whispered, "there are approximately forty presents on that table." Bill wriggled up beside her, wearing a caterer's uniform he'd pilfered from a van parked outside. "Forty-two. I counted the gift bags too. Somebody's parents went absolutely feral at the toy store." "This is the score of a lifetime." "This is the score of a Tuesday," Bill corrected. "Remember the nursing home bingo jackpot?" "That was different. Those old ladies were ruthless." Molly lowered the binoculars. "Okay, here's the plan. We go in as the entertainment. I've got a clown suit in the van." Bill stared at her. "You have a clown suit in the van." "Permanently. You never know when a clown suit will be useful." "That sentence concerns me on several levels, Molly." "Shut up and put on the second one." "There's a second clown suit?" "There's always a second clown suit, Bill. That's the whole point of the van." Bill pulled at the polka-dot fabric, which squeaked with every movement. "I look like a haunted piñata." "You look approachable. Children will trust you. That's step one of every good heist—establish rapport with the marks." "They're five years old." "Which makes them the most observant security system on the planet. A kid can smell a fake clown from across a playground. You need to commit. What's your clown name?" "Uh... Bill-o." "Bill-o? That's terrible. You're Buttons. I'm Madame Giggleworth." "You've clearly rehearsed this." "I've clearly rehearsed this," Molly agreed. "Now, the presents are on the table by the slide. I'll distract the birthday boy with a balloon animal. You fill the sacks." "What kind of balloon animal?" "A giraffe, Bill. It's the only one I know." "Then make it a long distraction." "Fine, I'll make it a very long giraffe. Meanwhile, you work the table. Left to right. Big packages first." "What about the parents?" "That's the beauty of it. Parents at a children's party are exhausted. They've been singing 'Happy Birthday' for forty minutes. They won't even track us. We're invisible. We're clowns." Bill adjusted his rainbow wig. "What if a kid cries?" "Then you juggle." "I can't juggle." "Then you cry too. Solidarity disarms suspicion." "That's your strategy? Crying?" "It worked at the governor's mansion." "That was a funeral, Molly." "Grief is grief, Bill. It transfers." Somewhere across the yard, a whistle blew and a horde of screaming children stampeded toward a piñata shaped like a dinosaur. Molly's eyes went wide with professional appreciation. "Look at that crowd control," she breathed. "That piñata is doing half our work for us. When it breaks, chaos. We move during the stampede for candy." "Stealing presents from children on a sugar stampede," Bill said slowly. "Are we the bad guys?" Molly paused, one hand on her oversized novelty bow tie. "We're entrepreneurs," she said. "The children learn a valuable lesson about impermanence." "They're five." "Early is better. Now fix your nose, Buttons. We're going in." Bill squeezed the squeaky red nose on his costume and sighed. "I hate this job," he said. "You love this job," said Molly, and stepped out from behind the bouncy castle, honking with purpose.