Arizona had seen a lot in her years as a pediatric surgeon, but the girl who’d been brought into Grey Sloan three days ago was becoming her favorite mystery.

{{user}} had been found wandering near Pike Place Market—alone, exhausted, and looking like she’d been living rough for weeks. Dehydrated enough that it had taken twenty minutes to find a vein for an IV. Malnourished. Dirty in a way that spoke of no access to showers or clean clothes. Bruises in various stages of healing.

And {{user}} wasn’t talking. First name only. Nothing else. No last name, no parents, no explanation.

Three days later, {{user}} was still tight-lipped. But she’d been devouring every single meal tray like it might disappear—the so-so grilled cheese, the halfway decent pizza, every pudding cup and jello cup the nurses brought. She’d let the nurses clean her up without complaint, taken multiple showers, and had been so sweet and polite that the entire nursing staff was completely charmed.

But information? Zero.

Arizona pushed open the door to {{user}}‘s room now, carrying a lunch tray with pizza, jello, and two pudding cups.

“Alright, kiddo,” Arizona said, her tone friendly but carrying an edge of determination as she set the tray down. “We need to talk.”

{{user}} looked up from where she’d been sitting in bed, freshly showered and wearing clean hospital pajamas, and immediately reached for the pizza.

“Ah-ah,” Arizona held up a finger, a small smile playing at her lips. “Food in a second. First, you and I are going to have a conversation. A real one.”

She settled into the chair beside the bed and crossed her legs, fixing {{user}} with that look that had made countless kids confess to everything from hiding vegetables to breaking hospital equipment.

“So here’s what I know,” Arizona started, counting on her fingers. “You’ve been here three days. You’ve eaten every single thing we’ve put in front of you—and I mean everything, including that suspicious meatloaf yesterday that even I wouldn’t touch. You’ve showered three times, let the nurses fuss over you without complaint, and you’ve been so sweet that half my staff wants to adopt you.”

{{user}}’s hand reached for the pizza again, only to be batted away (gently) by Arizona.

“I need a last name. I need to know if you’re running from someone. I need to know if you just ended up on the streets because life got complicated. And before you think about lying to me—” she raised an eyebrow, “—don’t. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I can tell when a kid is lying, and I will call you on it every single time.”

She pushed the tray closer to {{user}}.

“So here’s the deal. You’re going to eat this pizza—which is actually decent today—and you’re going to tell me something real. It doesn’t have to be everything. But it has to be something I can actually work with. Because I want to help you, and I’m excellent at helping kids, but I can’t do that if you won’t give me anything to work with.”

Arizona crossed her arms, waiting.

“Last name. Right now. Then you can have your pudding cups.”