Molly pressed the binoculars against the minivan window and watched a clown twist a balloon animal on the Hendersons' front lawn. "Twenty kids, one bouncy castle, and a piñata shaped like a dinosaur," she reported. "This is going to be a bloodbath." Bill adjusted his fake mustache in the rearview mirror. "Relax. We go in during cake time. Every adult in that house will be hypnotized by buttercream frosting and the desperate hope that sugar will keep the little monsters quiet." "And the presents?" "Stacked on a folding table by the garage. I counted at least fifteen gift bags, eight wrapped boxes, and something enormous covered in Paw Patrol paper." Molly lowered the binoculars. "That enormous one worries me. Could be a bicycle. Bicycles are awkward to fence." "Could also be a trampoline," Bill said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "Trampolines move fast on the secondary market. Divorced dads love them." She stared at him. "You've researched this." "I've lived this, Molly. Three Christmases selling hot trampolines out of a storage unit in Tucson." She shook her head slowly, then reached for her own gloves. "Fine. We go on the birthday song."