By the time we reached the sidewalk, the dot on the screen had stopped behind Sharon’s detached garage. Jordan and I crept along the fence line. Through a gap in the boards, I saw the garage door rolled halfway open. Inside, stacked from the concrete floor nearly to the rafters, were hundreds of packages. Brown boxes, padded envelopes, gift bags, all with shipping labels still attached.

Then a white cargo van backed into the alley behind her yard. A heavyset man in a ball cap jumped out and started loading boxes two at a time while Sharon checked items off a clipboard. I watched her hand him my gift box. The dot on Jordan’s phone jumped into the van. “Grandma,” Jordan whispered, “that label on top says Mrs. Alvarez. She lives three streets over.”