Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YF3HGNQECPZV3Y8ZM65C6H

Molly spread the birthday invitation across the café table, pinning its corners with two sugar packets and a spoon she had accidentally stolen from the café. “According to the invitation, the party starts at two, the magician arrives at three, and the presents will be stacked beneath a cardboard castle.” Bill studied the drawing. His disguise, a fake mustache, kept dropping into his coffee. He fished it out and stuck it beneath his nose again. “Cardboard castle means cardboard defenses. Finally, a fortress designed by someone who shares my commitment to doing the absolute minimum on a Friday afternoon.” Molly circled the garden gate. Beyond it, she explained with an increasingly greasy fingertip, lay the lawn, the party tent, and approximately thirty excitable children. “We go in dressed as entertainers. You carry the sack, I create a distraction, and we leave before anyone notices the mountain of presents moving.” Bill glanced at the sack beside his chair. It was bright pink, covered in sequins, and bore the words BIRTHDAY PRINCESS in enormous silver letters. “I borrowed it from my niece. She said I could keep it if I attended her piano recital, so technically this is the cheaper option.” Molly unfolded a second sheet of paper: a detailed map of the garden, drawn from memory after she'd delivered a pizza to the house yesterday. “The tent has two entrances. We enter through the front, load the sack behind the cake table, and exit through the back, past the bouncy castle.” Bill inspected the map, then rotated it ninety degrees. Molly rotated it back. He rotated himself instead, which caused his chair to scrape alarmingly. “What happens if somebody asks us to entertain? I can juggle two things, but one has to be a grudge and the other one money.” Molly removed a packet of balloons from her coat. She inflated one, twisted it twice, and produced something resembling a dachshund that had suffered disappointment. “Balloon animals. Nobody expects artistic excellence at a children’s party. We distribute these until the magician arrives, then take advantage of the ensuing confusion.” Bill squeezed the dachshund. It exploded. The café's remaining customers turned to stare, and he pretended the noise had come from a very small motorcycle. “I’ve just noticed something on the invitation. Why does it say guests should bring a wrapped donation for the children’s hospital instead of a present?” Molly examined the small print. Her expression shifted from confidence to horror, then to the particular annoyance of a woman whose research had come unstuck. “That’s inconvenient. Stealing hospital donations makes us monsters, and I’ve already paid for the balloons. We could return the sack and rob the magician instead.” Bill imagined confronting a man who concealed things professionally. He also imagined his niece at her piano recital, searching the audience for his familiar face. “Or we could donate the balloons, help with the party, and leave the presents alone. I’ll even attend the recital, provided you come with me.” Molly considered this. Then she gathered the map, the invitation, and the spoon. Across the table, Bill finally noticed his mustache had fallen off again. “Fine. But when your niece starts playing, I’m creating a distraction. And if anyone asks, this spoon came to the recital of its own free will.”