Chapter Eighteen
LISA
Polly wakes too early, and fussy. Her sharp cry ruthlessly cuts into the fog of sleep. "Coming," I mutter, forcing myself up. It's been more than three months, but I'm still adjusting to Polly's sleep schedule. Having worked at the Whiskey Den for so many years, I'm used to late nights and later mornings. I don't know how anyone gets up when it's still dark out. Add to that a very colicky baby, and I'm little more than a walking zombie.
"C'mon, baby girl." I cross to where the bassinet sits under my bedroom window and pick her up, cuddling her as I pad downstairs to grab my first cup of lifeblood, also known as coffee. Polly's noises become increasingly agitated. "I know, hon. Mama just needs to wake up, then morning nursey?"
I know she can't really understand me
