"All her stuff is in the bag, I think." The taller woman gestured vaguely to the other end of a large, bright living room, albeit one that seemed to barely have been touched since the paint dried. Sam tilted her head back in ever-present annoyance and let the smallest of huffs escape her throat. Even for a paying job, this was already too much.

"So like diapers, toys, snacks, that kind of stuff, that's all there, right?" she asked, regarding the woman who had called herself "Root" upon introduction. Her hair was loose and well-cared-for; she wore simple if fairly expensive clothing, and Sam could appreciate the leather jacket. She did not look insane. But neither did she act like the average sort of person handing her child off to a stranger for the first time.

Of course, referring her as a fill-in nanny without her permission was the first black mark on her adviser's tally, so the employer in question turning out to be crazy was really only to be expected. The words "you really ought to develop your people skills, dear, and it pays well" were enough to put that woman on Sam's shit list, but encountering Root had certainly moved her up a few spaces.

"I assume so," Root answered breezily as she shrugged a leather bag over her shoulder. "I'll be back after work, and we can discuss your payment then." Sam narrowed her eyes at the various meanings Root insinuated into the word 'payment.' She had seen the way her new employer was looking at her, and no way was she going there, not while also watching the kid. Maybe at the end of the week, though, if she wasn't in prison for infantile homicide by then. And what time exactly was after work?

The kid was kicking up a fuss from the floor at her feet, for the third time since Sam had gotten there. She picked up the baby at the same time as she realized that Root had never even told her the child's name, or touched the baby before she left, either. She rocked stiffly back and forth and tried to remember the previous semester's lessons on child-care, though the back of her mind wondered wild questions about the woman who had hired her.

"It's going to be okay," she said in a flat tone, rolling her eyes at herself. Her instructors had joked that the baby tone was always appreciated, but what really worked was the vocal vibrations in the speaker's chest reaching the infant. Thank God for small favors.

The baby started to make gruff little noises like some kind of animal. Then she accompanied the noises by nudging her head more and more insistently at Sam's chest.

"Oh hell no, little baby, bear, whatever you are," Sam protested. "You have to have a bottle somewhere." She caught sight of a gaily-colored bag next to the couch, one that certainly did not match the decor, and grabbed at it. Sure enough, there was formula and a clean bottle within.

The baby's quiet growls deepened as Sam prepared the formula. When she finally gave it to the little monster, they subsided, but they had already grafted the bones of an idea into her head.

"Little Bear's as good a name as any," she remarked decidedly. "Bear for short. I'll just have to remember not to call you that when your mom's around." The newly-christened Little Bear made no bones about this turn of events, so Sam shrugged. When Bear grizzled at being jostled, Sam looked down at her severely. "Hey, kid, this life is hard enough without your whining. How about I feed you, you don't complain, and we all live until I get paid?" Eye contact continued for several seconds. Sam nodded. "I'm taking your silence as tacit agreement."

"And now I'm talking to a pre-verbal infant like it can understand. This is all your fault, Little Bear."

Nowhere in the first floor could anything approaching a crib be found, so Sam settled for the padded sling-carrier she found in the bottom of the baby's bag. She had never before suspected that babies required bags larger than what she would pack for a ten-day trip, but then that only provided further proof that babies were dead weight. And drooly.

"Stop that," she warned Little Bear. Apparently excitement also stimulated saliva production. The terror was currently strapped to her chest in preparation for a hike up the stairs in search of supplies. Supplies such as a crib, or anything that would literally get the kid off her chest.

"I'm going up the stairs, don't freak out," she deadpanned at the foot of the stairwell. Bear gurgled happily and Sam grimaced downward. This only seemed to amuse the infant more, so Sam rolled her eyes at the vagaries of small humans and moved cat-like up to the second floor.

It was much dimmer upstairs, but Sam quickly located the lights at the top of the stairs.

"Which one's your room?" she asked absent-mindedly as she quickly glanced around the now-bright upper hallway. Upon further inspection, the first door was a bathroom, the second a master bedroom, and the third a guest room, none with any indication of a baby residing therein. She even double-checked the main bedroom, thinking that perhaps Root's insanity also manifested itself in having Bear sleep next to her bed, or worse, in her bed, but there was nothing to say that the woman did anything but sleep alone. And though Sam tried not to think about it, she did notice that the lack of proof of other people in Root's bedroom extended beyond just Bear. Not that she was interested, but she noticed things like that. And it was good to know about the home situation of your employer, especially if you worked in said home. It was perfectly logical to check.

Her observations of Root's bedroom notwithstanding, there was no evidence of Bear at all on the second story. Sam was so distracted by this that she nearly jogged down the stairs, but stopped herself in time to ease down, all the more careful now for her near-mistake.

"Guess you're going to help me write my report," she remarked to Bear. When she looked down, the baby was curled into her chest, already asleep. "Huh. Lot of good you are."