Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YGNS22NE7VQG039MHVZNYQ

Molly spread the birthday invitation across the kitchen table and pinned its corners with four stolen salt shakers. Bill studied the glittery dinosaur with professional suspicion. “The target is Saturday, two o’clock. There’ll be cake, balloons, and approximately thirty presents. We go in during musical chairs and take the lot.” Bill drew a square on the invitation with a red crayon. The crayon snapped, which he interpreted as an unfavorable omen and Molly interpreted as Bill. “Thirty presents means several trips. We’ll need a vehicle, a diversion, and some way to explain why two adults are carrying boxes past the parents.” Molly produced a photograph of the venue: a community hall with a side door, a fenced garden, and a banner reading HAPPY SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, OLIVER. “We pose as entertainers. I’ll be a magician, you’ll be my assistant, and nobody questions an assistant carrying a large sack out of a party.” Bill looked down at his considerable stomach, then at the photograph. Last Halloween, his magician’s assistant costume had caused three separate children to report a bear. “I’m not wearing that leotard again. Also, your last magic trick involved setting fire to a scarf, which was considerably less impressive to its owner.” Molly opened her notebook to a page headed CONTINGENCIES. Beneath it she had written FIRE EXTINGUISHER, SPARE SACK, and, in larger letters, BILL’S LEOTARD OPTIONAL. “Fine. You can be a clown. When the music starts, I’ll sneak into the gift room, while you keep everyone busy with your balloon animals.” Bill made a long, squeaking balloon into something roughly resembling a sausage. He added a second sausage, twisted both together, and waited for her verdict. “That’s a giraffe. If anyone asks why it has no head, tell them it’s hiding. Children respect imagination, especially when it’s cheaper than proper training.” Molly marked the side door on the photograph. According to her reconnaissance, it opened directly onto the car park and was visible from the gift room. “We’ll park beside it, engine running. I load the presents through the door, you finish your giraffe routine, and we leave before anybody spots the gap.” Bill considered the timing. He had once spent forty minutes making a single balloon dog, mostly because the balloon had burst and he’d needed a lie-down. “What if musical chairs ends before you’re finished? Seven-year-olds move fast, Molly. The little one at the supermarket outran me, and I had her trolley.” Molly checked her notes again. The invitation promised a prize for the winner, and the hall’s ancient music player had a conveniently detachable power cable. “I pull the plug, announce a technical difficulty, and you lead a singalong. They’ll be occupied until I’ve got every present safely in the van.” Bill surveyed their equipment: the sack, the crayon, one headless giraffe, and a clown nose that squeaked whenever he breathed. He put the nose on. “All right. But we open the presents together, and if there’s a bicycle, I get first ride. I’ve never had one with streamers before.”