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“Not when you’re drunk, it isn’t.”
She gasped. “Daddy! I never get drunk. Never. Ever.”
“Wait. You’ve never been drunk?” he asked.
“Nope.” She shook her head so hard that she toppled over onto her side.
And started to giggle.
“Oh, my poor baby. You are definitely going to regret this in the morning.” He crouched and brushed the hair off her face.
“I regret nothing!” She pumped her fist into the air.
“We need to get some food and water into you. And painkillers.”
“Nooo, Daddy!”
“Yes, Little Blossom. Let’s get you in something you can sleep in first.” He stood and moved toward the closet.
“No!” she cried out, trying to follow him.
But for some reason, she found herself on her bottom on the floor. She started giggling again.
She didn’t know why. It just seemed really, really funny.
“Fuck, baby. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Nuh-uh, I’m fine, Daddy.”
“I need a highchair for you.”
“Don’t needs it, Daddy. I’m all good.” He picked her up and laid her down on the bed again. But this time he pulled up the sides, so she was enclosed in a crib.
“Stay there while I get some clothes for you.”
“But I like your T-shirts.” She pouted.
“You want to sleep in one of my T-shirts?” he asked her.
“Uh-huh. The Wishingbone, Montana ones. They are so cute and soft and cuddly.”
“All right. I’ll be right back.”
She hummed, rolling back and forth until a fullness in her bladder had her sitting up.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
He rushed in, looking harried. Poor Daddy. He seemed so tired. He should rest more.
“What is it? Do you feel sick?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Are you in pain?”
“I don’t thinks so.” She shook her head, then regretted it as the room spun.
“Then what’s wrong?”
