Run: 2026-09-23-01M37P52B3WVVK7YW077DDFB26

Molly adjusted her rainbow wig in the rearview mirror while Bill studied the birthday party through binoculars, a juice box trembling in his hand. "Remember, we're clowns. Blend in." "The wig itches," Bill replied, honking his nose twice for luck. They'd been planning this for weeks. The forged invitation had been the hard part—imitating a six-year-old's crayon scrawl took surprisingly delicate penmanship—but the payoff was worth it: forty-seven presents stacked beside a bounce castle shaped like a dragon. Molly had counted them twice from the pizza delivery van they'd "borrowed." "Forty-seven presents, Bill. Forty-seven." The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Bill would perform his legendary balloon animal routine, luring the children toward the patio with promises of poodles. Molly, meanwhile, would empty the present table into the van using a leaf blower she'd modified into a gift vacuum. She'd invented it herself and was still a little emotional about it. They slipped through the hedge, wigs slightly askew. Bill froze mid-step. A clown was already there—a professional one, with actual juggling skills and shoes that squeaked with confidence. "We have a problem," Bill muttered. Molly squinted at the interloper, then at her own foam nose, which suddenly felt very amateur. "Improvise. Steal his shoes." Bill had never been prouder of her.