She's alive.

He has to keep reminding himself of that fact, when the beeping of the machines gets to him, and the doctors look sombre and no one seems able or willing to tell him what is going on.

She's alive.

Her mother isn't, and that is ripping him apart inside, but he has to stay strong for his little girl, his Kelly. He will stay here and hold her hand as many hours as they'll let him, and he'll sit outside in a blank hospital corridor and pray the rest of the time.

He hasn't prayed in years. He's less than convinced it will make any difference, but when there's nothing else left to do, it seems like his best option. It helps to feel like he's doing something for her. He hopes that God, if there is a God, hears prayers offered in desperation as well as those offered in faith.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn't so good at reading people, at knowing when the words they speak don't match up to what their body or face is saying. That way he wouldn't see it when the people who should know think she probably won't make it.

When she starts breathing on her own, the doctors get more hopeful. The look in their eyes, a different note in their voices.

They say the same things they've been saying for days, weeks (it feels like months or years), that she has a chance, that scans show activity in her brain. The difference is that now he allows himself to believe they might be telling the truth.

There's a gradual improvement. The doctors talk about responses to stimuli and pain, and they poke and prod her in ways that make him want to take them all out when her little body twitches and flexes in ways that look painful - except that every time the poking and prodding ends they look a little happier, a little more satisfied, a little more confident. And that is what is keeping him sane, keeping him from taking his gun and finding a deserted beach somewhere and...

Sometimes her eyes flicker open for a second. They don't seem to focus on anything, but he sees her pretty eyes, and he thinks of her mother, and he promises he's going to be there for her. Forever.

Other times she mumbles. He's told this is a good sign as well, even though he can hardly hear her and the words he can make out make no sense. She was always a chatty, articulate child. It scares him to hear her say random words and syllables, with no meaning.

The injuries to her body are healing. The doctors say the injuries to her brain will take longer.

When one of the doctors pinches her thumbnail and she pulls away in pain, her eyes opening wide for a few moments, he almost punches the man in the face. Then he sees the smile.

She's really improving, they say. She's pulling through.

Now when he says her name, her eyelids open just a little. Sometimes it almost seems like she's looking at him

It's only when her eyes flutter open spontaneously, and track around the room till they meet his that he remembers again that this miracle, for which he has been hoping and praying, is not the end of his pain. Their pain.

"Daddy?" Her voice is husky and cracked from lack of use, and he scoots forward to place an ice chip between her lips. Her eyes ask all sorts of questions, and he will have to answer her.

His Kelly, his baby girl, is alive. Is going to get better.

But she no longer has a mom.

"I'm here, sweetheart."

I will always be here, he promises fiercely, silently.

He takes her hand between both of his, squeezes it gently.

She still has a whole lot of healing to do. So does he.

But they will heal together.

She's alive.