It's December of 2014.

Christmas is just around the corner.

Lisa Chambers sits in the burn unit of the regional medical center in Memphis, Tennessee.

She's an hour from her home in Mississippi.

She's been here since late last night.

The white noises of the hospital fill her head, the beeps, the fast clicking of shoes in the hallway, the chitch hat, the random coughs and buzzing of machines.

Lisa sits in a chair next to her 19 year old daughter Jessica.

She clutches her hand.

Jessica is dying.

She's burned on 98% of her body.

Practically every inch of her dainty teenage frame is wrapped in white gauze.

Her organs are shutting down one by one.

The soot inhalation she suffered is so severe that Jessica can't speak.

She can't write. She can't do anything, but feel the warmth of Lisa's touch and

take little shallow breaths. Lisa knows this is it. The once beautiful blonde daughter she raised for two

decades is at the end of her time on earth. Lisa looks at her child.

Jessica, it's okay, baby.

Mom is here.

And daddy's in the waiting room.

You know your daddy. And daddy's in the waiting room.

You know your daddy. He's a big old baby and he can't come in here, but he's here and we love you. She says.

Lisa pushes her glasses up to her nose and looks at her daughter.

...