“I already hate this child and I’ve still got six more months to go before I get to see it.” Adam's voice was joking. Light, playful banter between travel companions. No underlying grain of truth or annoyance that now he had to deal with this fresh hell. "If you can't sleep on a bedroll --" He considered. "Have you tried putting your pack behind your knees?"
If somebody wanted to count up the amount of times Rhoda sighed tonight--for cash (who’d count just to count?) there’d be a good--ninety caps. Well, no. It would be ninety-one caps as the woman sighed, shifted. A voice in her head lovingly purring, ‘leave it to a man to know best.’ ...a thought as joking as Adam’s own words. Though really. If not for his suggestion Rhoda wouldn’t have once reckoned it. Was more comfort laying this way when all was done? Hah. Hardly. But Rhoda didn’t plan complaining. He had his wife--wherever she was--to do the nagging. And if she knew he was running around with a pregnant woman, there’d be plenty of shit to say. This is what Rhoda knew. Because she’d have plenty shit to say, “It’s good you don’t live with me.” She noted, simple and to the point. Really. Adam wouldn’t be seeing this third child. With its probable dark hair...hopefully light-colored eyes, learn to eat. Speak. Play. He wouldn’t have to endure the noises and messes that came hand-in-hand. If Adam did endure these sights, somehow and someway...the courier didn’t have the energy to release some sort of humored gust from her nostrils. She just knew he’d then know the meaning of hate for a baby.