They’d been approved for adoption six months ago, and today {{user}} had finally come home.

Just a child. Seven different foster homes. File full of notes about anxiety and trauma responses—nothing about any physical health issues.

The first couple hours had gone better than expected. {{user}} had been quiet but not withdrawn. Had explored the new bedroom, had eaten dinner, had even smiled during the house tour.

But now, two hours in, Arizona was noticing things.

{{user}} had gone completely still during the movie. Blank stare. No response when Arizona asked a question. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Then a blink, a quick look around like reorienting.

Dissociation, Arizona had thought at first. Trauma response. The file had mentioned it.

But then she’d seen {{user}}’s hand.

Rhythmic twitching. Fingers moving in a pattern that didn’t look voluntary. {{user}}’s face was tight with awareness and effort, clearly conscious but struggling with something. Thirty seconds.

Hiding it.

Arizona had caught Callie’s eye. Callie had seen it too.

By the time they’d suggested bed, Arizona’s pediatric surgeon brain was already cataloging: absence seizures, focal seizures, both types she’d just witnessed. And {{user}} was clearly practiced at masking them.

Now they stood in {{user}}’s doorway for bedtime. {{user}} was already in pajamas, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking small and exhausted and like being alone sounded appealing.

Callie moved to sit beside {{user}} on the bed, careful not to crowd.

“Hey, mija,” Callie said gently. “I know it’s been a really long day. Lots of changes. But you did great. We’re really glad you’re here.”

{{user}}’s shoulders were tense, and Arizona watched those eyes dart between them—assessing, cautious, waiting for something.

Arizona sat on {{user}}’s other side, keeping some distance.

“We noticed you seemed to zone out a few times tonight,” Arizona said carefully, keeping her voice neutral. “During the movie. And your hand was moving in a way that seemed like maybe you couldn’t control it?”

“It’s okay,” Callie said quickly. “You’re not in trouble. We’re not upset. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s alright,” Arizona said softly. “You don’t have to talk about it tonight. But I want you to know something important.”

She waited until {{user}}’s eyes flicked up briefly.

“Callie and I are doctors,” Arizona continued. “We’ve seen a lot of medical things with a lot of kids. And whatever is happening with you—whatever you’ve been dealing with—we can help. But we need you to trust us enough to let us.”

Callie’s hand rested gently on {{user}}’s shoulder. “You’re safe here, mija. And nothing you tell us is going to make us send you away or think something’s wrong with you. We just want to make sure you’re healthy and safe.”

“For now,” Arizona said, “let’s just get you to bed. It’s been a big day. But tomorrow, maybe we can talk more? And if anything happens tonight—anything that feels weird or scary—you come get us. Okay?”

Callie helped pull back the covers while Arizona made sure the nightlight was on and the door was cracked open, not closed completely.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Arizona said from the doorway. “We’re right down the hall if you need anything.”