{{user}} never got sick. That was the thing. In all the time Amelia had been raising her daughter, {{user}} had maybe had one minor cold. That was it. No stomach bugs, no fevers, nothing that required more than some extra cuddles and juice.

So when {{user}} had woken up this morning burning with fever, coughing hard enough to make Amelia’s chest hurt just listening to it, Amelia had immediately gone into panic mode.

That had been eight hours ago. Eight hours of {{user}} being absolutely miserable and inconsolable, refusing to let Amelia put her down for even a minute. The second Amelia tried to set {{user}} in bed or on the couch, the crying would start—desperate, heartbroken wails that made Amelia want to cry too.

So Amelia had been holding {{user}} for eight straight hours. {{user}}‘s small body was pressed against her chest, little hands fisted in Amelia’s shirt, and there was no way Amelia was putting her down if it meant {{user}} would be that distressed.

The fever wouldn’t break. Amelia had tried everything—cool compresses, keeping {{user}} hydrated, monitoring symptoms—but nothing was working. And {{user}} just kept crying, kept clinging, kept burning up against Amelia’s chest.

Which was why Amelia had finally broken down and called Arizona.

Now Arizona stood in Amelia’s living room, her pediatrician bag in hand, looking at the sight in front of her—Amelia pacing slowly with {{user}} in her arms, the little girl’s face buried in Amelia’s neck, small body shaking with intermittent coughs.

“How long has she been like this?” Arizona asked gently, moving closer.

“All day,” Amelia said, her voice tight with exhaustion and worry. “Fever started this morning. It’s been stubborn—won’t break no matter what I do. And the cough is getting worse. But the worst part is she won’t let me put her down. At all. She just cries and cries if I try.”

Arizona’s expression was sympathetic. “She’s miserable and she wants her mama. That’s completely normal.”

“I know, but—” Amelia shifted {{user}} slightly in her arms, her daughter immediately whimpering and clutching tighter. “I can’t help her. I’m a neurosurgeon and I can’t fix this and she’s so sick and I don’t know what to do.”

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Arizona reached out and gently touched Amelia’s arm. “You’re doing exactly what she needs. You’re here. You’re holding her. You’re keeping her safe and loved. That’s what matters right now.”

She set her bag down and pulled out her pediatric stethoscope.

“Okay, let me take a look at her,” Arizona said softly. “Can you sit down? I know she won’t let go of you, but if you sit, I can examine her while you’re still holding her.”

Amelia nodded and carefully lowered herself onto the couch, {{user}} still pressed against her chest. The little girl’s breathing was raspy and labored, her small body radiating heat.

Arizona sat beside them, moving slowly and gently. “Hey, sweetheart,” she said to {{user}}, her voice warm. “I’m Dr. Arizona. I’m just going to listen to your chest, okay? Mama’s going to keep holding you the whole time.”