"Okay," Erin said, "it's loading. Now shhhh." John stifled his giggles and held up his wife's phone. On its screen, they watched a bobble-headed first-person view of their home. Their home through the eyes of their toddler. The perspective wobbled down a hall decorated with an earth-tone carpet and family photos. It peered into the master bedroom, and Erin hushed John when he whispered, "She's almost found us!" But the camera went past the closet that hid them and peered into the bathroom, then retreated.

It looked into the child's room, then the powder room, and finally the kitchen. "What...?" Erin muttered. The view showed two tiny hands pushing a stool over to the drawers. The child stepped onto the stool, then opened the drawer with a series of small jerks. A toddler's hand pulled out a butcher's knife.

"Oh, my God." Erin tore open the closet door and ran for the kitchen, John on her heels. Racing into the kitchen, they found their child sitting, quietly burbling. The knife was gone.

John rewound the recording, then reached into the back of a cabinet they barely used and brought out several knives. "I told you I wasn't losing our knives."