From prison, Williams wrote Melissa:

"I hate myself for what I caused. Jasta is always on my mind day and night. I have a lot of shame and guilt. I hold on to the pain I cause you. Just about everyday I question myself why am I still living. I should of died that night not her. . . . All because I was a selfish person that got into the truck drunk. It eats at me I don't even feel human anymore. I know an apology not going to fix what I caused. I am sorry. I wish there was something I could do."

Because Williams had limited car insurance and no assets, Melissa got only a few thousand dollars from the insurance company. The judge in the criminal trial ordered him to pay $11,000 to Melissa, and he sends small amounts from prison - $36 a few weeks ago.

Melissa also filed a civil suit against Williams, but not to win a big judgment. Williams could never have paid it, her lawyer, Joan Gallagher, said.

Instead, Melissa wanted to make him pay by remembering. So Williams has agreed to a settlement that will require him, once he leaves prison, to write a $75 check to Mothers Against Drunk Driving every month for the next 15 years.

"I don't want the money," Melissa e-mailed, "and I wanted it to do some good, and at the same time I wanted him to remember what he did to have to write that check. So I thought it was a perfect way!"

Williams, who, according to his lawyer, has been a model prisoner, is eligible for parole this Christmas Eve. In June, Melissa and her mother both told a hearing officer that they opposed his release.

"It's simply too soon," her mother said.

Melissa's life today

Nine months after the accident, Melissa went back to work at the preschool. They welcomed her, tried their best to accommodate her. But Melissa left last winter. The job became too much for her.

Even following directions for arts-and-crafts overwhelmed her. If she sent a child to "time-out," on the playground, said a former assistant, Melissa couldn't remember who it was or what he'd done by the time she got back inside.

Melissa lives at home with her mother and stepfather, and probably always will live with family or friends. They believe the tasks of daily living - remembering to turn off the stove or paying bills - would overwhelm her.

Melissa receives Social Security disability, and baby-sits now during the day for a family she met at the preschool.

The Trommers, of Feasterville, worried at first if caring for their little girl would upset Melissa, remind her of Jasta, but that hasn't been a problem, Ingrid Trommer said. She and her husband also realize Melissa can't remember many instructions they tell her, so they write things down.

Every morning on the toaster they leave a Post-it note: Please make Katie a piece of toast. In her room they leave a note: Please turn air conditioner on for her nap.

"Melissa is the strongest person I know," Ingrid Trommer said. "It is just incredible what she has endured and how far she has come."

Melissa drives now, but never at rush hour, and only to work, the cemetery, or the preschool, where she tends a bench dedicated to Jasta. She is able to do this, said Fried, because these are familiar routes, deeply embedded in her brain.

If a road is closed, Melissa will panic and call her mother, unable to cope with finding a new course. She will not drive to the mall because she can never remember where she parked.

In March, Melissa began cleaning a Pennsylvania Department of Transportation office three nights a week, through a program run by Inglis Community Employment Services to help people with disabilities find and keep jobs.