Run: 2026-09-29-01M3P2BTH57T6GCV5MZ100MJ6H

Molly crouched behind the Hendersons' hydrangea bush, binoculars pressed to her face, watching forty sugar-crazed children scream inside a bouncy castle shaped like a unicorn. The unicorn's horn drooped slightly. It looked tired. So did the parents, who huddled around the pizza boxes with the glazed stares of hostages. Bill squeezed in beside her, wedged into a fuzzy sweater that read Ask Me About My Grandkids. He had no grandchildren. He had a laminated photo of someone else's grandchildren and a great deal of confidence. "Present table is by the juice station," Molly whispered. "Seventy-three gifts, give or take." "Seventy-three," Bill said reverently. "That's a lot of Legos." "That's a retirement fund, Bill." "I was hoping for both." Molly lowered the binoculars and gave him the look she usually saved for safecrackers who sneezed. "Here's the plan. You're Uncle Terry. Nobody knows Uncle Terry, so everybody assumes somebody else does." "Why am I Uncle Terry?" "Because you look like a Terry." Bill considered this. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all year." Across the lawn, a clown in a wilted rainbow wig twisted a balloon into something that resembled neither a dog nor a sword. He glanced toward the hydrangea and held the stare a moment too long. "The clown's watching us," Bill said. "He's not watching. He's dead inside. Ignore him." "And what are you?" "The pony lady." Molly tugged the brim of a pink cap embroidered with Sparkle Ponies. "There's a pony in the van. His name is Gerald. He's our getaway vehicle." "Gerald can't go faster than a trot." "Gerald has never been caught, Bill. Think about that." Bill thought about it. It was annoyingly hard to argue with. From the patio came a shriek of "CAKE!" and the entire party stampeded toward the sound like wildebeests with frosting fantasies. Within seconds the lawn emptied. The present table stood abandoned, glittering and unguarded, every box tied with curly ribbon and false promise. "That's our window," Molly said, cracking her knuckles. "Go get 'em, Uncle Terry." Bill tugged his sweater straight, squared his shoulders, and marched across the grass with the calm stride of a man who absolutely belonged there. He made it nine steps before a toddler in a dinosaur costume latched onto his leg and refused to let go. "Well," Bill muttered, dragging the child toward the table like a very small anchor, "this is going to slow me down." Behind the hydrangea, Molly closed her eyes and wondered, not for the first time, why she never partnered with professionals.