John Crichton could barely make himself heard over his son’s crying. “I’m sorry, already! I’ve
apologized six times!” he yelled.
“And I’ve told you six times that being sorry will not fix this!” Aeryn bellowed over the unhappy
screams. “We agreed to take turns. It was your turn.”
“I’m going! I’ll go get something right now!” He headed for the door.
“FREEZE, Mister!” Aeryn barked.
John froze, one foot in midair.
“You forgot to buy baby food; you deal with the hungry child.” Aeryn dumped D’Argo into John’s
arms, grabbed her long overcoat, and was gone before he could argue.
* ~ * ~ * ~* ~ *