DADWAGON

Last night, my daughter, Sasha, spoke to me. In a dream. It was lunchtime, we were hungry, other nameless, faceless friends were around, discussing where to eat. From her spot on the ground, Sasha spoke one word: “Burrito.”

Stunned, we stared at her. Had she ever even eaten a burrito? And where would we find a decent one in New York? Then she said it again. We asked her if she had, in fact, said, “Burrito.”

“Yeah,” she said.

So we went for burritos, and though I don’t remember either she or I eating them, I do know that I left her diaper bag at the restaurant, and then I was riding my bicycle back into Manhattan (which is odd because I don’t have one and don’t live in Manhattan), following Theodore on his bike along a strange elevated trail that eventually landed us just offshore of the island—and chest-deep in water.

Thinking of all the now-ruined electronics in my pockets, I said, “Thanks, Ted.”

Sasha, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.

(For what it’s worth, last night I ate Momofuku’s fried-chicken dinner. I think that explains everything.)