Run: 2026-09-29-01M3P2D529CWVY51GG8APDK4HY

The bouncy castle was going to be the problem. Molly had known it the moment she spotted it through the binoculars, looming over the Hendersons' back garden like an enormous purple thumb. Bill lay beside her in the hedge, chewing a sandwich he had promised not to bring. Egg mayonnaise clung to his balaclava, which he insisted on wearing even though it was two in the afternoon and the party was technically open to the public. "Right," Molly whispered. "Forty-two presents on the gift table. Twelve children, eleven parents, one clown." "The clown worries me," said Bill. "The clown is sixty and called Mr. Giggles. He is not the threat." "He's holding a balloon animal like a weapon." "It's a dachshund, Bill." Molly lowered the binoculars and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had worked with Bill for eleven years, ever since the Great Biscuit Tin Job, and in all that time he had never once been calm about a clown. "Here's the plan," she said. "You're the birthday girl's long-lost uncle. I'm the caterer. We stroll in, load the presents into the cake van, and stroll out." "What's the uncle's name?" "Gerald." "I don't feel like a Gerald." "Nobody feels like a Gerald, Bill. That's what makes it perfect." Bill considered this while swallowing the last of his sandwich. Across the garden, a small boy in a dinosaur costume began screaming at a pony that did not exist. Nobody seemed concerned. A father in a novelty apron simply handed the boy a juice box and walked away, his eyes hollow with the wisdom of the damned. "What if the kids catch on?" Bill asked. "They're seven. Last week one of them tried to pay for sweets with a leaf." "That leaf was worth more than my pension." Molly ignored him and tapped her watch. "Cake at three. Every adult will be staring at the cake, and every child will be staring at the adults staring at the cake. That's our window." "And the bouncy castle?" "We avoid the bouncy castle." "Molly, it's between us and the van." She looked. He was right, which was irritating, because Bill was so rarely right that she had stopped budgeting for it. The purple thumb wobbled in the breeze, and from inside came the thunder of a dozen small feet and a single, bloodcurdling shriek of joy. It seemed to be listening. "Fine," she said at last, straightening her caterer's apron. "We go through it." "Through it?" "Bounce low, keep your knees soft, and whatever you do, don't make eye contact with the birthday girl." Bill tugged the balaclava down over his chin, which was not an improvement, and gave a brave little nod. Somewhere near the gift table, Mr. Giggles raised his balloon dachshund and squeaked it defiantly in their direction. "He knows," Bill breathed. "He doesn't know." The dachshund squeaked again. "Gerald," Molly muttered, and stepped out of the hedge.