of antibiotics, try to keep the risk of pneumonia and other secondary infections down while we fight the primary one. Her immune system is wiped out by the virus; right now, she's in serious danger from something as simple as the common cold. We've also got some new synthetics we're going to try, stuff they developed for the Ebola war down in the Congo. There's a chance they might interact with the virus, slow it down some. But other than that, there isn't much more we can do."
"And then?" asked Sam wearily.
Unwilling to speak the inevitable, the doctor side-stepped. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr Dalton. For now, we make her comfortable. And we keep looking for answers. That's all we can do.' He clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder in an attempt to be compassionate. "If there's anything we can get for you, you let us know."
A cure for my daughter would be nice , Sam thought, with more than a hint of derision as the other man stepped away, but he left the comment unspoken, the rational part of him knowing that the doctor was only doing his job and that there wasn't much anyone could do. Not any more.
It was only a matter of time now. It was going to take a miracle to save his precious little girl.
And he was long past believing in those.
Feeling a hundred years older than when he'd entered the building earlier that morning, Sam got up and made his way down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. The place was practically deserted; visiting hours were long since over and only a handful of night staff and the occasional family member staying over with a loved one were present. The harsh fluorescent lighting made everything seem starker, edgier, and the effect just heightened Sam's sense of dislocation. It was another world here, a world reserved for a select, miserable few, and he knew that only those who had endured this hellish existence would ever understand.
At no other time in his life had he felt the crushing weight of responsibility so strongly. And never had he felt more alone than he did now. He stared at the other people in the cafeteria, wondering if even they could understand his situation. His wife was dead. His only child was dying. He hadn't been able to go to work since he'd brought Jessica here and he was sure they wouldn't hold his job for him much longer, no matter how trivial the position. Not that it mattered much; who could work when their family was dying around them?
He paid for his coffee and wandered over to sit at an empty table. The drink was horrible, the sludge factor practically off the scale, but he hadn't had anything for hours and he sipped at it, not caring.
He didn't even know he was crying until a passing orderly laid a pack of Kleenex on the table in front of him in a simple gesture of kindness.
Jessica was still asleep when he returned to her room, and for that he was grateful. The last few times they'd changed her meds she'd been up for all hours of the night, which, of course, meant he had been, too. This time, whatever they'd given her had worked, for she was out like a light, a slight smile on her narrow face.
He stood next to her bed for several long moments, just drinking in the sight of her. He ignored the IV, the heart monitor, and the electronic data feeds taped all over her body, and just looked at his little girl.
Her once cream-coloured skin, now slightly yellowed with the start of jaundice.
Her thin, little arms, the insides of both bruised horribly from the weeks of moving the IV back and forth.
Her thin lips and pert little nose, so like her mother's.
Her dark hair, once long and full of ringlets, now hanging limp and all but lifeless as her body abandoned supporting it as it routed all the nutrients it could to her vital organs.
God, she's beautiful , he thought, and just like that the tears started again. He couldn't help it. During the day he was her lifeline, her means of gauging just how bad things were getting, and he'd be damned if he gave
"And then?" asked Sam wearily.
Unwilling to speak the inevitable, the doctor side-stepped. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Mr Dalton. For now, we make her comfortable. And we keep looking for answers. That's all we can do.' He clapped a hand to Sam's shoulder in an attempt to be compassionate. "If there's anything we can get for you, you let us know."
A cure for my daughter would be nice , Sam thought, with more than a hint of derision as the other man stepped away, but he left the comment unspoken, the rational part of him knowing that the doctor was only doing his job and that there wasn't much anyone could do. Not any more.
It was only a matter of time now. It was going to take a miracle to save his precious little girl.
And he was long past believing in those.
Feeling a hundred years older than when he'd entered the building earlier that morning, Sam got up and made his way down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. The place was practically deserted; visiting hours were long since over and only a handful of night staff and the occasional family member staying over with a loved one were present. The harsh fluorescent lighting made everything seem starker, edgier, and the effect just heightened Sam's sense of dislocation. It was another world here, a world reserved for a select, miserable few, and he knew that only those who had endured this hellish existence would ever understand.
At no other time in his life had he felt the crushing weight of responsibility so strongly. And never had he felt more alone than he did now. He stared at the other people in the cafeteria, wondering if even they could understand his situation. His wife was dead. His only child was dying. He hadn't been able to go to work since he'd brought Jessica here and he was sure they wouldn't hold his job for him much longer, no matter how trivial the position. Not that it mattered much; who could work when their family was dying around them?
He paid for his coffee and wandered over to sit at an empty table. The drink was horrible, the sludge factor practically off the scale, but he hadn't had anything for hours and he sipped at it, not caring.
He didn't even know he was crying until a passing orderly laid a pack of Kleenex on the table in front of him in a simple gesture of kindness.
Jessica was still asleep when he returned to her room, and for that he was grateful. The last few times they'd changed her meds she'd been up for all hours of the night, which, of course, meant he had been, too. This time, whatever they'd given her had worked, for she was out like a light, a slight smile on her narrow face.
He stood next to her bed for several long moments, just drinking in the sight of her. He ignored the IV, the heart monitor, and the electronic data feeds taped all over her body, and just looked at his little girl.
Her once cream-coloured skin, now slightly yellowed with the start of jaundice.
Her thin, little arms, the insides of both bruised horribly from the weeks of moving the IV back and forth.
Her thin lips and pert little nose, so like her mother's.
Her dark hair, once long and full of ringlets, now hanging limp and all but lifeless as her body abandoned supporting it as it routed all the nutrients it could to her vital organs.
God, she's beautiful , he thought, and just like that the tears started again. He couldn't help it. During the day he was her lifeline, her means of gauging just how bad things were getting, and he'd be damned if he gave
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