Lexx was one month old.
The time had passed in a blur of feedings and diaper changes and sleepless nights that Franz honestly didn't mind as much as he'd expected to. He had learned to function on less sleep than he'd ever thought possible. He had learned that a baby could produce an astonishing amount of laundry. He had learned that Lexx had a particular cry for hunger, a different cry for discomfort, and a third cry that seemed to mean nothing at all except that he wanted to be held. Mostly, he had learned that he was absolutely, completely, irrevocably in love with his son.
