Molly leaned against the wall, pencil tucked behind her ear as she studied the layout of the party's venue. Bill paced back and forth, his loud whisper echoing off the deserted office space they'd commandeered. "I'm telling you, Molly, we can't go in looking like we're trying to rob a bank. Kids' parties are about flashing lights and princess dresses. We need to blend in." "What, like a pair of children? There's a reason I didn't take that gig with the clown makeup." "Hey, that clown job had real potential. I figured it'd be a solid alias. 'Binky the Birthday Clown' – what could go wrong?" "It could go very wrong. The birthday boy might still be traumatized from your last clown gig. Remember when you lost control of the squirt gun and drenched the mayor's kid?" Bill stopped pacing, flashing her a mock-offended look. "That was one time, and I was young. I've been studying the art of innocuous clownery since." Molly raised an eyebrow, still scribbling notes on her pad. "I'm not sure 'art' is the word I'd use when someone in a curly wig makes balloon animals with what looks suspiciously like escaped tarantulas." Bill's grin returned, and he clapped Molly on the back. "That was an homage, Molly. To the surrealist masters. Next thing you know, you'll be accusing me of trying to 'ironize the concept of trauma through hosiery.'" Molly shook her head, pencils stuck between her teeth, eyes fixed on the layout. "Let's focus on not getting caught, Bill. We can save the surrealist critique for the getaway."