The doctors reduced the growths they could get at with laser surgery, shrinking some of them, but, in the end, Kennidi Cunningham could not withstand the ravages of the tumorous disease that was sweeping through her. The losing struggle went on for almost three years. The constant treatments provided only temporary relief, while Kennidi always seemed to be getting weaker and smaller. When she was four and a half, she finally died. It happened during abdominal surgery to relieve a blockage in her intestines.
Of course, the doctors at Bethesda knew it had not been God's divine plan that had killed her. They had already seen more than twenty similar cases.
Her own father had delivered the ghastly death sentence.
The guests filed past the touched-up photo of Kennidi and signed the book, leaving little messages of consolation next to their names. They wandered down to the pool, where a string quartet played softly. They stood quietly holding glasses of wine or punch, their too loud whispers pitting the sweet sad music like sand blown against a window.
By then, everybody knew the story, mostly because of the press coverage about the lawsuit the Cunningham family had filed against the U. S. Government.
None of that seemed to matter now.
Cris Cunningham stayed upstairs in his old bedroom while the mourners arrived. He knew, like the doctors at Bethesda, what had really happened to his daughter. After Kennidi's death four days ago, Cris had collapsed. His grip had finally been pulled loose by the endless tug of events.