Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DA0XMZT0NYY1J6Q78VM3B5

The van sat three houses down from the Pemberton birthday party, its engine ticking as it cooled. Molly pressed a pair of binoculars to her eyes and grinned. Somewhere past the hedge, a child shrieked with joy. "Balloons on the gate," she said. "Pink ones. Forty, at least. And the lawn is covered in a bouncy castle." Bill squinted over her shoulder, a clipboard balanced on his knee. He flipped a page and frowned at his own handwriting. "Forty-two. I counted twice. Nobody in this business counts balloons, Molly." "Somebody has to. If one pops, the whole street knows." "Pop, schmop. The real problem is the clown." Molly lowered the binoculars. Across the garden, a man in a polka-dot suit stood beside the cake table, juggling three oranges with unsettling precision. Every few seconds his painted smile turned toward the van. "He's terrifying," she said. "He's been staring at us for ten minutes." "That's because you parked in front of the piñata." "I parked where the parking was." Bill tapped the clipboard with his pen. "Okay. The plan. We go in through the side gate during the cake. Everyone's singing, and nobody watches the presents. The presents are the only things in that garden that aren't screaming." "Good. We grab the presents, load them in the van, and we're gone before the second chorus of Happy Birthday." "And if anyone asks?" "We say we're the entertainment." "Molly, we are not the entertainment. You put that on the flyer and the kids will expect a magic show." "I can do a magic show. Watch." She reached over, plucked a coin from behind his ear, and held it up triumphantly. Bill patted his ear, then his pocket, then groaned. "That was my wallet." "Still counts." A gust of wind rattled the van's side door. Bill leaned forward and peered through the windshield at the heaped pile of gifts beside the porch steps. He pointed with the pen, his hand trembling slightly with professional excitement. "Eleven boxes. One of them is shaped like a pony." "A pony?" Molly's eyes went wide. "Bill, what kind of child gets a pony for their seventh birthday?" "A rich one. Which means the wrapping paper will be expensive. Don't tear it. Peel it. Rich kids notice torn paper." "You've been studying children, haven't you?" "I've been studying their parents' bank statements. Same thing." Molly reached for the door handle, then paused, her fingers resting on the cold metal. "Hang on. Who gets the pony?" "We do." "We can't keep a pony in a van." "We'll find a farm. Everybody needs a farm." She sighed, pulled a ski mask from her coat, and tugged it over her curls. Outside, the party guests began a ragged chorus of "Happy Birthday," off-key and gleefully loud. Bill winced. "Fine," Molly said. "Gate first. Balloons second. Pony third." "And the clown?" Molly glanced toward the garden. The clown had abandoned the oranges and was now waving at them with a rubber chicken, his polka dots flashing in the afternoon sun. "If we get out of this without him noticing," she said, "I'm buying you a birthday cake." "Deal." Bill pulled his own mask down and reached for the door. "Just don't sing."