Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PR9G6XXZMQRG6NNAT23E0

The van smelled of gas-station burritos and bad decisions, which, as far as Molly was concerned, meant it smelled like home. She unrolled the blueprint across the dashboard. It was not, strictly speaking, a blueprint. It was a birthday invitation with a dinosaur on it, and someone had drawn arrows all over the dinosaur in purple crayon. Bill leaned over from the driver's seat. He was a large man with a small mustache, and both of them looked worried. "Is that the layout?" he asked. "It's the invitation," Molly said. "Tyler is turning six. Party starts at two. Presents go on the gift table by the bouncy castle. That's our target." "How many presents are we talking?" "Twenty-two kids confirmed. Parents in this neighborhood? Minimum two gifts each. We're looking at forty-four boxes of pure, unsupervised plastic." Bill whistled low. Then he frowned, which on Bill took a while, like watching a cloud decide to rain. "What's the entry point?" Molly tapped a crayon arrow. "Side gate. Latch is broken. I checked on Tuesday when I pretended to be selling kitchen knives." "You sold them knives?" "I sold them three knives. That's not the point." Outside, a minivan the color of a boiled shrimp pulled into the cul-de-sac. A woman climbed out hugging a present the size of a refrigerator. Bill watched it pass with the expression of a man seeing the face of God. The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Bill would enter wearing a rented clown suit. Nobody questions a clown at a children's party; clowns are like weather, simply something that happens to you. While the children were distracted, Bill would carry the presents through the side gate and into the van. The weakness of the plan was Bill. "I've been practicing my clown stuff," he said proudly, pulling a limp balloon from his pocket. He blew until his face matched the shrimp van, then twisted it with tremendous concentration. It popped. "That was a giraffe," he said. "It was a tragedy," Molly said. "Just juggle." "I can't juggle." "Then fall down. Kids love it when clowns fall down." Bill considered this and found it within his skill set. At two o'clock precisely, the bouncy castle inflated with a sound like a great beast waking. Bill wobbled out in oversized shoes, honked his nose twice for courage, and started across the lawn. He made it four steps before a pack of six-year-olds spotted him and charged, shrieking with joy. Through her binoculars, Molly watched her partner vanish beneath a wave of tiny bodies and party hats. Forty minutes later, the side gate creaked open. Bill staggered out, face paint smeared, holding nothing but a paper plate of cake. "Where are the presents?" Molly demanded. "They made me help open them," he whispered. "Tyler got a drone. It's very good. He let me fly it." "Bill." "Also, his mom booked me for Saturday. Two hundred bucks, plus cake." Molly stared at him for a long moment, then at the cake. "What kind of cake?" "Chocolate." She sighed and reached for a fork.