Arizona was in the middle of explaining a surgical procedure to a nervous parent when her pager went off.
She glanced down automatically—probably a consult, maybe a patient update—and felt her blood run cold.
CODE: Hospital Daycare. Emergency. {{user}}.
The world tilted.
“I’m sorry,” Arizona said, her voice coming out strangled as she shoved the tablet at a resident. “I have to go. Dr. Karev can finish this consult.”
She was moving before anyone could respond. Running through the corridors of Grey Sloan in a way she never ran—controlled, purposeful, but fast enough that nurses stepped aside.
{{user}}. Their toddler. Who’d been perfectly fine this morning at drop-off. Happy. Healthy. No fever, no complaints, nothing that would suggest—
Arizona’s mind was spiraling through possibilities. All the terrible things that could happen to a toddler in the span of seconds.
She hit the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, taking them two at a time.
Her phone buzzed. Callie.
Arizona answered while still moving. “I’m on my way. Do you know what happened?”
Callie’s voice was tight with barely controlled panic. “No. Just got the page. I’m coming from ortho. Meet you there.”
The hospital daycare was on the second floor—a bright, cheerful space that Grey Sloan provided for staff with young children. Arizona had dropped {{user}} off this morning at 7:30. Had kissed that small forehead, had gotten a cheerful wave goodbye, had felt grateful that {{user}} loved daycare and that she could work knowing her child was just a few floors away.
Safe. Or so she’d thought.
Arizona burst through the daycare doors and immediately scanned the room.
Most of the kids were gathered in the far corner with a caregiver, intentionally distracted. But in the center of the room, there was a cleared space. A caregiver kneeling on the floor. And {{user}}—
{{user}} was on the ground, small body seizing. Grand mal.
Arizona’s doctor brain and mother brain collided violently.
She was moving before conscious thought, dropping to her knees beside {{user}}.
“How long?” Arizona asked the caregiver, her voice sharp and clinical even though her hands were shaking.
“Maybe thirty seconds,” the caregiver said, clearly trained but also clearly scared. “No warning. {{user}} was playing and just—collapsed and started seizing.”
Arizona’s hands moved automatically—checking airway, positioning {{user}} on side, protecting that small head from hitting the floor. She pulled out her phone, already timing.
Forty-five seconds. Sixty seconds.
Callie crashed through the door, and Arizona watched her wife’s face go pale.
“Oh my God,” Callie breathed, dropping down on {{user}}’s other side. Her brain went into that zone it went into during tough surgeries, trying to work this problem out.
“You’re okay, mija,” Callie breathed, helping Arizona roll {{user}} to a recovery position. “Ride it out, baby. Just keep breathing. We’re right here.”