Molly adjusted the oversized clown wig in the reflection of a plastic spoon. “You sure this is going to work, Bill?” she whispered, her voice muffled by the synthetic hair. Bill, dressed in an equally absurd polka-dot jumpsuit and comically large shoes, wrestled with an inflatable giraffe, trying to shove it into their duffel bag. “Of course it’ll work,” he huffed, his face turning as red as his rubber nose. “Kids love clowns. We’ll blend right in, grab the loot, and be back home in time for reruns of ‘Cops’.” Molly eyed him skeptically. “And what exactly qualifies as ‘blending in’, Bill? Because last time I checked, we look like rejects from a fever dream.”