Molly and Bill huddled in the shadows of a tall oak tree, their eyes fixed on the cheerful lights spilling from the house across the street. The sounds of laughter and music drifted towards them, mingling with the chatter of children's excited voices. "Bill, how do I even look like a clown?" Molly asked, her voice laced with skepticism as she stared at the bright orange wig and oversized shoes she held in her hands. "Not a question you hear often, I'm sure," Bill replied, his voice muffled behind a red rubber nose he was adjusting on his face. "It's simple. You wear this." He reached into his bag and produced a garish floral shirt and equally loud clown pants. "Though I don't think that will help you pull off 'happy' today." Molly sighed, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her heavy jacket. "I can barely fit in these. And I swear, I'm allergic to this wretched wig." "Buck up, buttercup. We went through seven fences to get these outfits. They cost an arm and a leg," Bill said, puffing out his chest as he adjusted his ill-fitting jacket. His already large frame looked comically crased in the oversized clown suit. "Now, shall we discuss the plan?" "Discuss the plan?" Molly grunted, struggling to squeeze her legs into the tiny clown pants. "Did you not get the memo? We break into the party, grab the presents, and we're out. Simple enough." "And if things go wrong?" Bill asked, his tone laden with a warning they both recognized. "Things won't go wrong," Molly said confidently. "These are five-year-olds we're talking about. I doubt they've mastered lockpicking or armed security." "What about the adults?" Bill pressed on, his clown shoes squeaking as he shifted his weight. "We don't know how many, and they won't take kindly to two 'lost' clowns." "Ah come on, Bill," Molly said with a sarcastic chuckle. "What would you know of being kind?" She stood and brushed off her pants, inadvertently causing the oversized shoes to fall off her feet. "Oops." "Careful there," Bill said dryly, handing her the shoes. "Did you know that's the sixth time today you've said that?" "I did not," Molly protested, her face mottling with embarrassment. "It was either that or 'God, where's my chin?'" he added with a sideways glance at her temporary hair. "Hey, that's uncalled for!" she shot back, finishing up her costume with a colorful hat. "So I'm a bit of a klutz. It's a talent." Bill looked her over and nodded in mock approval. "For comedic relief, maybe. Now pay attention. Once we go in, we use our 'magic tricks' to distract the adults." "And the kids!" Molly added, perking up. "Not the kids," Bill corrected. "The kids are our decoys. They draw the grownups to us while we make off with the loot. You really haven't graduated from Clown School, have you?" "I haven't been!" Molly retorted defensively. "I'm a fugitive emancipated juvenile!" Bill sighed deeply. "Right. Principles of Misdirection. I didn't cover that class either, if you recall." "Well, you drop the real guts of the act!" she fired back, her clown nose squeaking with the force of her words. "This is why we don't plan anything!" "You're the one who broke into that armory last year with only a credit card and a smile," he said quickly. "I call that magical. Or crafty. Both, really." "More you than me," Molly said with a shrug. "I gave that a B." "Not magically talented," Bill answered, a bookings of thunder interfering his speech. "Planning, Molly. You're not." "Moot point," he sighed. "There's the party." The two clowns shared a once-last look at the vibrant party before making an unsteadily approach.