Scout Finch had always idolised her father. Her earliest childhood memories were of being planted on his knee reading the paper along with him and, when sleep overtook her, burrowing her face into the warm comfort of his chest. Her father was her hero, her God. He always wanted to know how her day had went, always devotedly helped her with her homework each night, and was always ready with a fatherly hug whenever the world got too dark for her. Her father was the only parent she had ever known and she loved him uncritically.

It was for this reason that telling him she was dying would be the hardest thing she had to do.

Yes, at only eleven years old, the Lord was calling her Home. Of course, she didn't want to die, but what other explanation was there when she had got the worst pains imaginable in her lower stomach and started bleeding from the strangest of places? Whatever way she looked at it, her days were numbered.

It had all started during a particularly dull algebra lesson earlier that day. As she had sat stewing over the problem on the board before her, she had felt a wetness between her legs, and immediately her cheeks began to burn. Had she really wet herself during class at eleven years old? How on earth does that sneak up on a person? The humiliation she was feeling was like nothing she had ever known and she wanted nothing more than to sprint from the classroom. But, doing that would only draw unwanted attention to her.

Despairingly, she had sat on only half listening to what was being taught, the fear that someone would catch on to her secret shame so palpable she barely moved a muscle. Lord knows what Cal would say to her once she got home and told her what had happened, and she could only imagine what Jem's reaction would be when he found out his eleven year old sister had wet herself during algebra. Oh, she felt like crying. Why was it that things like this always happened to her?

When the home time bell rang sharply at three, Scout breathed out a sigh of relief, she had thought it would never be time to leave. Waiting until the classroom was completely emptied, she slowly and gingerly packed her things up, throwing a glance to down to her seat as she did so; it was still dry. Puzzled, she slung her bag over her shoulder and began the walk home, still feeling that squelching between her legs as she walked. It felt disgusting. It felt like she had sat in a dollop of molasses before getting dressed that morning and simply gone about her day. She was sure she must look like a complete fool walking home the way she was, taking one deliberately slow step and then stopping to judge the molasses once again. What in the world was going on with her?

When she finally did reach home after the slow journey through town, she found that the wet feeling had only grown worse. Wincing at the sheer uneasiness of it all, she called out hello to Cal and Atticus, and took herself through to the bathroom where she nearly died of fright. Her hand clamped firmly over her mouth as she saw blood. Blood where it most definitely shouldn't be. Lord, she was dying. That was the only possible explanation. That was one place where there definitely without a doubt should not be blood. How on earth was she supposed to tell Atticus that she couldn't go to school tomorrow because she was dying? What would he have to say about that? She'd have to give all her things to Jem; she would have no use for them anymore. How cruel it was to be having her life cut short at eleven. There was still so much she wanted to do.

But, maybe they could get Dr Reynolds! Of course he would know how to stop it and see that she lived another day! He would know exactly what was wrong with her and how to fix it. There was no better doctor in the whole area. Her life would be saved if they got Dr Reynolds over here in time! Then she wouldn't have to give all her worldly possessions to Jem who would most likely destroy them.

"Atticus!" She screamed for her father. He would know exactly how to get things in motion to get Dr Reynolds over as soon as possible.

She heard her father's footsteps come thundering down the hall from the kitchen, followed closely by Cal by the sounds of thing. She took a deep breath to steady herself for the onslaught of emotion her father would display at learning that his only daughter was near death. She didn't think she would be able to handle Atticus crying.

"Scout? Honey, what's the matter?" Atticus' voice came from the other side of the door.

"Sir, can you come in here?" She called back, trying hard to hide the tremor in her voice.

Ever so slowly, the door handle to the bathroom twisted round, and her father stood before her flanked by Cal. "Baby, what's wrong?" Atticus asked, apprehensively looking round the bathroom to gauge what her struggle was.

Scout took a deep breath. "Atticus, I'm dyin'." She said matter of fact, waiting for her father to dissolve into tears.

She was therefore a little insulted when he laughed at her. "Honey, what do you mean you're dyin'? You look perfectly fine to me. You're going to have to be more original than that to try and get a day off school." Her father replied, his eyes twinkling at her.

"I'm bleedin', Atticus! I have to be dyin'!" Scout repeated, a little taken aback that her father refused to accept that she was in fact dying. Maybe he was in denial.

"Bleedin'? Bleedin' where?" Atticus asked, his brow knitting together. Behind him, Scout saw Cal flick her eyes in his direction.

"Here." Scout gestured to the general area of where the blood was flowing, watching in confusion as her father's cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink.

Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "Scout...ahem...you're eh...you're not dyin', baby."

By this point she was nearly in tears. Why wouldn't her father just accept that something was seriously wrong and call for Dr Reynolds? The more time they wasted debating on the issue of whether or not she was dying, the stronger the likelihood became that she actually would collapse on the bathroom floor any moment. She was dying and she needed the doctor!

"Atticus, I am! You need to get Dr Reynolds over here! There's blood, Atticus, I have to be dyin'!" Scout began pleading with him, begging him to stop playing around and get her the help she needed.

"Scout, trust me honey, you're not dyin'." He said again, his cheeks growing pinker by the minute. He looked over his shoulder at Cal who was gently trying to push past him to get to her. "Cal, could you...talk to her?" Atticus asked, leaving her even more confused about everything. Talk to her? Talk to her about what? She was dying! She didn't want to talk, she wanted Dr Reynolds to come and help her.

"Sure I will, Mr Finch. It won't be a bother." Cal smiled kindly at her, reaching out her arm for her take her hand.

"Scout, Cal's gonna take you through to the kitchen and...talk to you about some things, alright? You're ok, baby." He pulled her into a hug as she left, placing a kiss on her head as he did so. Scout, meanwhile, was ready to strangle him.

Awkwardly, and still confused, she followed Cal down the hallway to the kitchen where she closed the door tightly behind them. What had just happened in the bathroom? Why was her father so reluctant to save the life of his daughter? Was Cal about to call the doctor and tell her that she was dying? Someone had to do it. She didn't believe a word that Atticus was saying.

"Cal, why won't Atticus call the doctor? I'm dyin'!" She turned fretfully to Cal, hoping with all her heart that she would see the seriousness of the situation and get everything fixed.

"Miss Scout, you listen to me. You ain't dyin'." Cal said firmly and sat her down at the kitchen table.

With a mixture of curiosity and disgust, she listened to Cal tell her what was really happening to her. She couldn't believe what Cal was telling her! Until she was fifty?! What the hell had she done to deserve that? Cal made it sound as natural as breathing, but it didn't seem natural. It seemed horrible and wrong and just plain disgusting. Wouldn't other people be able to tell what was happening to her?

Cal put all her worries at rest, assuring her that if her mother had been living, this wouldn't have snuck up on her the way it had. She supposed she herself was partly to blame for not sitting her down sooner and talking to her about things. But, despite feeling a lot less worried about what she had been sure was certain death, she still couldn't shake the feeling of unease and the uncomfortable feeling when Cal had got her sorted with how to catch the blood. It just didn't seem right that this was happening to her.

"Ahem." She looked up from the book she was reading, seeing her father standing before her in the living room where she had gone to digest everything Cal had said. "Still think you're dyin'?" He asked with a hint of humour in his voice, sitting down next to her and wrapping his arm around her.

"No, sir. I ain't dyin'. Not yet." She replied, shifting awkwardly under his arm. She couldn't believe he actually wanted to hold her when he knew what was happening with her.

"Good because Cal needs someone to help her clean the kitchen tomorrow." Atticus teased her before falling silent for a few minutes. "You're eh...you're still my Scout, you know that?"

"Yes, sir. I know that." She wrapped her arm around him and buried her face in the familiar warmth of his chest.

She'd always be his Scout.