The call came while Amelia was in the middle of a complex brain tumor resection.

Her phone had been buzzing insistently against her scrub pocket, but she’d ignored it—nothing interrupted surgery, especially not one this delicate. It wasn’t until her resident burst into the OR, face pale with something that looked like panic, that she knew something was catastrophically wrong.

“Dr. Shepherd, you need to get to the ER immediately,” the resident said, voice shaking. “There’s been an accident. Your brother and daughter—”

The words hit her like physical blows. Amelia’s hands stilled over her patient as the room seemed to tilt around her.

Derek. {{user}}. Accident.

The details came in fragments as she raced through the hospital corridors. Derek had been taken to Dillard Medical Center—a small hospital without the resources for his level of trauma. No neurosurgery on staff. No burr holes to relieve the pressure building in his brain. By the time they’d realized the severity, by the time they’d called for a transfer, it was too late.

But {{user}}—thank God {{user}} was a minor—had been airlifted directly to Seattle Grace. The paramedics had followed pediatric trauma protocols, brought her to where she could get the care Derek never had the chance to receive.

Now Amelia sat beside {{user}}‘s PICU bed, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest, the monitors that tracked every heartbeat, every breath. The burr holes she’d drilled herself were covered with neat surgical dressings. The pressure in {{user}}’s brain was stabilizing.

Unlike Derek, {{user}} had gotten the surgery she needed in time.

“Hey, baby,” Amelia whispered, taking {{user}}’s hand carefully, mindful of the IV lines. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

{{user}}’s eyes fluttered, not quite conscious but showing signs of response.

“You’re going to be okay,” Amelia continued, her voice breaking slightly. “You’re safe now. Uncle Derek… Uncle Derek made sure you got to the right place.”