That Old Feeling

“She’ll last two days,” he bet himself, and felt his black mood lift slightly. “Three at the outside.”

“Poo-poo,” the baby commented, but he couldn’t tell if she was agreeing with him, or if she was “pooh-poohing” him. She was a female after all, and even a pint-sized member of the fairer sex was probably blessed with intuition. Perhaps his wee daughter sensed that the thing he was worst at—besides choosing girl clothes for a one-year-old—was predicting how anything was going to go once Brandy King was in the vicinity.