In November 1909, doctors carried a young woman home to die. She was twenty. She was deaf. She was blind. Tuberculosis had been eating her lungs for three years. Twenty-eight doctors had examined her. Every one of them agreed: there was nothing left to do.

Her name was Dorothy Kerin. For the next two years she lay in a bed in London, wasting away to almost nothing. She could not see. She could not hear. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Her family was told it was now a matter of days.

On the night of the fourth of February, 1912, sixteen people gathered around her bed to say goodbye. Her mother was there. Her friends were there. They watched her breathing slow.

And then Dorothy sat up.

Her eyes opened. She said, later, that she had heard a voice: Dorothy, your sufferings are over. Get up and walk. So she did. In front of all sixteen of them, the dying girl pulled back the blankets, stood on legs that had not carried her in years, and walked across the room. Then she asked for a meal, and ate it.

A doctor named Norman was called to examine her. He watched her run up a flight of stairs. All he could say was, Great God, what is the meaning of it all. Her lungs tested clear. Within two weeks the newspapers had the story. The Evening News on the twentieth of February. The Daily Mirror on the twenty-first. Journalists filled the street outside her door.

Dorothy Kerin did not die that year. She lived another fifty-one years. In 1948 she opened a healing hospital in Kent called Burrswood, with a church built inside it, and it cared for the sick for seventy years.

The doctors gave her three months to live. She buried most of them. Sixteen people watched her stand. The newspapers are still on file. Science never explained it.

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