The page had come through at 7:42 AM.

Mass casualty incident. School bus collision. Multiple pediatric patients. All available surgeons to the scene.

Arizona had been in the middle of pre-rounds when her pager had gone off. She’d grabbed her trauma bag and met Jo, Teddy, and Amelia in the ambulance bay. They’d piled into one of the rigs, and the paramedics had filled them in on the way: school bus had been T-boned by a semi truck that ran a red light. Twenty-three kids on board. Ages ranging from fourteen to eighteen. Unclear how many casualties.

Arizona’s surgeon brain had clicked into gear immediately. Triage protocols. Pediatric trauma. Prioritizing the critical cases. She’d done this before—too many times—and she knew how to compartmentalize, how to focus.

What she hadn’t thought about—what hadn’t even crossed her mind in the chaos—was that {{user}} took the bus to school every morning.

Now Arizona stood in the middle of controlled chaos.

The scene was a nightmare. The bus was on its side, the entire front section crumpled from the impact. Emergency vehicles surrounded it, lights flashing. Paramedics and firefighters worked to extract patients while police tried to keep bystanders back. Kids were everywhere—some walking wounded being triaged on the sidewalk, some on stretchers, some still inside the bus.

Arizona had been working triage for twenty minutes. Had assessed four patients already—two with minor injuries cleared for transport, one with a possible concussion being monitored, one with a fractured arm that Jo was splinting. She was in full doctor mode, moving from patient to patient with practiced efficiency.

Then a paramedic called out to her.

“Dr. Robbins! Need you inside the bus! We’ve got a patient trapped—pinned between the seats. Can’t get her out yet, but she needs medical assessment now.”

Arizona grabbed her bag and moved toward the bus without hesitation. A firefighter helped her climb through the emergency exit. Inside was worse than outside—twisted metal, shattered glass, the smell of diesel and blood. It was dark except for emergency lighting. She could hear someone crying further back.

The paramedic led her toward the rear of the bus, stepping carefully over debris.

“She’s pinned pretty good,” he was saying. “Metal from the impact folded the seat forward. We’re working on cutting her free, but it’s going to take time. She’s conscious, responsive, but in pain. Possible crush injuries—”

Arizona rounded the mangled seat.

And stopped.

{{user}}.

Her daughter. Pinned between twisted metal and the seat in front, face pale and tear-streaked, blood visible on clothing.

For exactly two seconds, Arizona felt everything—the terror, the panic, the absolute devastation of seeing her child trapped and hurt.

Then she shoved it down and became Dr. Robbins.

Because {{user}} needed a surgeon right now, not a terrified mother.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Arizona said, and her voice came out steady—warm but professional. “I’m here now. Let’s figure out what’s going on, okay?”

She dropped to her knees beside {{user}}, hands already moving through assessment with practiced efficiency. No shaking. No hesitation. This was what she did.

“I need you to tell me where it hurts,” Arizona said, her fingers gently probing for injuries while her eyes scanned for bleeding, for crush damage, for anything critical. “Can you feel your legs? Wiggle your toes for me if you can.”