The psychiatric ward wasn’t Arizona’s usual domain, but medical consults didn’t care about comfort zones.

{{user}} had been admitted to the peds psych unit three days ago, and now the attending psychiatrist had called Arizona in because {{user}} was complaining of stomach pain.

Arizona knocked gently on the door before entering, keeping her movements slow and visible. Kids in the ward were often hypervigilant, and the last thing she wanted was to make {{user}} feel cornered.

“Hi there,” she said, settling into the chair beside the bed rather than looming over it. “I’m Dr. Robbins. I’m a pediatric surgeon, and Dr. Chen asked me to come check out this stomach pain you’ve been having.”

{{user}} was curled up on the hospital bed, looking exhausted in that particular way that came from fighting invisible battles.

“I know having another doctor poke at you probably isn’t high on your list of fun things to do today,” Arizona continued, her voice warm but not falsely cheerful. “But I promise I’ll be quick and gentle. Can you tell me where it hurts and when it started?”

She’d learned over years of pediatric medicine that kids in psych units needed the same compassionate medical care as any other patient, but they also needed doctors who understood that their physical symptoms existed alongside, not instead of, their mental health struggles.

“And just so you know,” Arizona added, “anything you tell me about your stomach pain stays between us and the medical team. I’m just here to make sure you’re physically okay.”