"She's not feeling any pain," said the doctor.

"I'm glad of that," said her mother

We are, though, thought her father. He looked at the tiny body on the bed, skinny and pink in Strawberry Shortcake pajamas. She should be outside today, playing tag with the neighbor boy Timmy or serving mudpies and tea to her dolls.

Peter holds her hand in his, thinks of the day he first saw her, remembers the incredibly small hand that stretched out, grasped his finger and held on. He smiles without any joy.

He wishes them all back to that day before life-eating cancer, before doctors and hospitals and pain. He wishes he could take her back, take her away.