Because I have too much free time, and because my imagination tends to work in the weirdest of ways, I often dream up nightmare scenarios involving myself and my daughter. The most common one goes thus:

My wife and I somehow die silently in our apartment, but Sasha survives—at least for a few days, during which she crawls around the pad, crying, growing ever weaker, playing with her toys, and slowly starving to death without ever seeing another human face again.

Good morning, Dadwagon readers!