The air in Bill’s ratty apartment smelled like pepperoni and regret. "So, how do we get past the parents?" Molly asked, her voice barely a whisper above the clinking of beer bottles in the fridge. “They'll be distracted.” Bill swiped a cold one, taking a long swig. “There’ll be cake. Lots of cake. They'll be in a sugar coma.” “Right,” Molly said, drawing a circle on a napkin with a purple crayon. “The only question is, ‘How many clowns are we talking?’” "None," Bill said, throwing a crumpled napkin at a rogue peanut. "We're going in after the party, when everyone's gone, remember? Just a quick hit-and-run. Easy peasy." Molly raised an eyebrow. "Easy peasy," she muttered, "until someone yells, 'Where'd all the presents go?'" Bill shrugged. "That's why we'll need a distraction. A very loud, very distracting distraction.” He grinned. "Like a very loud, very distracting bear."