Arizona paused outside room 314, taking a moment to center herself before stepping inside.

She’d specifically chosen this room for {{user}}—corner room, quieter, with windows that let in afternoon sunlight instead of the harsh artificial lights that could feel too much like interrogation rooms. The social worker had already been by, CPS had been called, and the paperwork was filed. The adults had done their jobs.

Now it was time for the most important part.

{{user}} was curled up in the hospital bed, looking impossibly small against the white sheets. The hand wraps had been necessary—not restraints, Arizona had been very clear about that, but soft protective coverings to keep small fingers away from pulling at the IV or picking at healing wounds. The dinner tray sat untouched on the bedside table.

Arizona knocked gently on the doorframe. “Hey there, sweetie. Mind if I come in? I’m Dr. Robbins. Do you remember me from earlier?

She moved slowly, making sure to stay where {{user}} could see her clearly, and settled into the chair beside the bed rather than towering over from standing height.

“I heard you haven’t tried your dinner yet,” Arizona said, her voice soft but not pitying. “I don’t blame you—hospital food is pretty terrible. But I was thinking, what if we could get you something you actually like? What’s your favorite food? Pizza? Mac and cheese? Ice cream sundaes for dinner?” She smiled, the kind that reached her eyes. “I’m the head of this department, which means I get to break a few rules sometimes.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on that gentle certainty that had calmed thousands of scared children. “You’re safe here, {{user}}. I know that might be hard to believe right now, but you are. And I’m going to make sure you stay that way.”