Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YGXHXK2XXYE786VE7MDP2B

Molly spread the birthday invitation across the diner table, weighting its corners with ketchup bottles. Bill studied the unicorn as though it contained military secrets. “The party starts at two. By three, every present will be stacked beside the cake. We go in, grab everything, and leave before the candles.” Bill sucked a milkshake through his teeth, producing a noise that made a waitress reconsider her career. He pointed at the invitation’s cheerful dress code. “It says costumes are encouraged. I can go as a pirate. You can be my parrot, provided you promise not to bite any actual children.” Molly folded the invitation into a sharp little square. Outside, rain polished the pavement and a bus sighed past, advertising a course in ethical investing. “I’m not being a parrot. We’ll pose as entertainers. I have a magician’s cape, and you own those trousers with the hidden pockets for snacks.” Bill considered his trousers with professional pride. Their pockets had once concealed fourteen sausages, a compass, and, briefly, an extremely surprised pet tortoise named Gerald. “A magician needs tricks. Last time you pulled a rabbit from a hat, it was the landlord’s toupee, and he wasn’t even wearing the hat.” Molly opened her handbag. Inside sat a deck of cards, three rubber chickens, and a smoke machine no larger than a tin of breath mints. “That’s why we’ll use distractions, not tricks. I release smoke, shout that the unicorn has escaped, and everyone runs outside while you collect the presents.” The waitress deposited their bill between them. Bill slid it under the ketchup bottle, where it joined the invitation and a previous unpaid parking ticket. “What if someone sees me? A grown man stuffing wrapped boxes into his trousers isn’t exactly invisible, especially if one of the boxes contains drums.” Molly drew a wagon on a napkin, then added wheels, a handle, and, for reasons known only to her, an elaborate mustache on the front. “We’ll bring a wagon labeled DONATIONS. Nobody questions a wagon with a respectable label. They might even help you load it, if you look charitable.” Bill practiced a charitable expression. It resembled a man attempting to apologize for swallowing somebody else’s hamster. Molly crossed out the mustache and drew another. “Suppose the birthday child catches us. Children ask terrible questions. My niece once asked why I had no job, and I cried for three hours.” A balloon drifted against the diner window, its string trailing like a question mark. Molly watched it rise, then turned the napkin over quite thoughtfully. “We say we’re taking the presents to be inspected for spiders. Nobody wants spiders in their birthday presents. Not even the spiders, I should think.” Bill nodded, reassured. Then he read the invitation again and went pale. Molly followed his finger to the address: the local police station, downtown, unfortunately. “Good news, we’ll have plenty of witnesses for our magic act.” “Bad news: the wagon needs a faster horse, and I haven’t brought one yet.”