Run: 2026-09-29-01M3P2BFYYVZB7GP693W0KRN01

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the hood of the van and pinned its corners with a juice box, a stapler, and a half-eaten churro. Bill leaned over it, chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick, as though he were examining the Mona Lisa. "That," she said, tapping the paper with a gloved finger, "is the Hendersons' backyard. Tomorrow, two o'clock, their son Tyler turns seven. Forty presents, minimum." Bill squinted. "Why is there a unicorn drawn on the garage?" "That's not a unicorn. That's a bouncy castle." "It has a horn." "It's a castle with a turret, Bill. Focus." She slid a photograph across the hood. It showed a man in a rainbow wig and enormous shoes. "Here's the plan. You go in as the entertainer. Zippo the Clown." Bill's face collapsed like a soufflé in an earthquake. "I hate clowns." "Everyone hates clowns. That's why nobody will look at you directly." "What if a kid asks for a balloon animal?" "Then you make a balloon animal." "I only know one shape, Molly. It's a sort of angry sausage." "Then it's an avant-garde dachshund. Sell it." She checked her stopwatch, which was strapped to her wrist beside a friendship bracelet she refused to explain. "While you keep forty children entertained, I'll be dressed as a caterer, moving the gift table to the side gate." "Won't the parents notice their whole gift table walking off?" "Not if I cover it with a tablecloth and call it a cake." "A forty-present cake." "A very ambitious cake. Eight minutes, in and out." Bill rubbed his stubbled chin, then raised one finger like a nervous student. "And if it goes wrong?" Molly gave him a long, flat stare, the kind usually reserved for parking tickets and raccoons in the pantry. "Bill, last month you got chased out of a petting zoo by a goat." "He was aggressive." "He was eating your sandwich, which you had put in your pocket." Bill opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at his shoes. They were, unfortunately, already the clown shoes, and they flapped sadly against the asphalt. Molly rolled up the blueprint and tucked it under her arm. "Two o'clock. Wear the wig. Wear the nose. And Bill?" "Yeah?" "Whatever happens, do not, under any circumstances, make the angry sausage for the birthday boy." Bill saluted, then pressed a squeaky red nose onto his face. It honked once, mournfully, across the empty parking lot. "No sausages. Got it."