The pediatric floor was alive with chaos and giggles—just the way Arizona liked it. She zipped past the playroom with a practiced glide of her heelys, expertly dodging a juice spill and waving to a kid in a dinosaur gown who shouted her name like she was a celebrity. Which, to these kids, she kind of was.

“No, no, no—crayons are not for sword fights,” she called brightly, ducking into the room just long enough to de-escalate World War III with a lollipop and a glittery sticker. Two minutes later, peace was restored. Again.

Arizona reemerged with a proud little grin, brushing a smear of paint off her scrub top. She snagged a brownie from the breakroom without breaking stride and made a mental note to say it was only her first of the day (she was lying—it was her third).

The NICU was next. She stopped there every chance she got. She couldn’t help it—those tiny fighters had her whole heart. One quiet check-in, a whispered hello, and a smile for the nurses who knew her routine by now.

Eventually, she coasted to a stop at the nurses’ station, popping her heelys up and leaning on the counter with the kind of casual ease that came from years of juggling miracles. She took a long sip from someone’s forgotten cup of coffee (oops?) and flipped open the next chart in the stack, lips pursing thoughtfully as her finger skimmed the notes.