Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PFAJS4VGN9XK4XD9RNANV

The van smelled of cold chips and ambition. Molly had spread the blueprints across the dashboard, though "blueprints" was generous. They were a crayon drawing she had pulled off the Hendersons' fridge while posing as a meter reader, and the architect had clearly been six. Bill squinted at it. "Why is the house purple?" "Artistic license. Focus on the kitchen." She tapped a lopsided rectangle. "That's where the presents are stacked. Forty kids, forty gifts, minimum. Timmy Henderson is turning seven, and his grandparents own a yacht." "A yacht," Bill breathed, as though she had said the word cathedral. Molly allowed herself a thin smile. Eleven years in the business had taught her that the best marks were the ones nobody suspected, and nobody suspected a bouncy castle. Banks had guards. Museums had lasers. Children's parties had one exhausted father holding a bin bag and a mother three glasses of prosecco from forgiveness. She pulled two costumes from the back seat. The first was a clown suit, polka-dotted and fragrant. The second was a large foam dinosaur. "I'm not being the dinosaur," Bill said. "You're being the dinosaur." "Last time I was the dinosaur, a toddler bit me." "Through the foam?" "He was committed, Molly." "Then be more committed. Dinosaurs are invisible to adults. Nobody questions a dinosaur." She ignored his groan. The plan was elegant. Molly, as Chuckles the Magnificent, would gather the children for a magic show on the lawn. At the precise moment she pulled a rabbit from her hat, which was actually a guinea pig called Gerald because rabbits were expensive, Bill would slip through the patio doors, tail swishing, and load the presents into a sack marked Party Supplies. "What does Gerald think about all this?" "Gerald is a professional." Gerald, in his shoebox on the back seat, chewed a receipt with quiet professionalism. Bill turned the dinosaur head over in his hands. Its googly eyes rattled. He looked up with the expression of a man about to ruin everything. "What if they open the presents before we get there?" "They never open them during the party. It's a rule." "Whose rule?" "Mothers. It's so they can write thank-you cards. It's the only law in this country anyone actually obeys." Outside, a minivan pulled into the Hendersons' drive. A small boy in a cape leapt from it and sprinted toward the front door, screaming the word "cake" at a pitch that set off a car alarm two streets over. Bill flinched. "They're feral," he whispered. "They're distracted," Molly corrected. "Sugar is our accomplice." He sighed and stepped into the dinosaur legs. They were too short, so he would have to waddle, which Molly privately felt added authenticity. She painted a red smile across her own face in the rear-view mirror, then paused. "One more thing. Whatever happens, do not agree to the piñata." "Why?" "Because last year in Croydon, I was the piñata." Bill stared at her. Somewhere inside the house, forty children began to sing.