Arizona’s scrubs were stained with {{user}}‘s blood, and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It had happened so fast. One second {{user}} had been standing right beside her outside the hospital daycare, the next {{user}} had bolted toward the parking lot, overwhelmed by the end-of-shift chaos—too many people, too much noise, too much sensory input all at once.

Arizona had screamed, had run faster than she’d ever run in her life, but the reversing car had been faster.

The sound would never leave her.

Now {{user}} was in surgery, and Arizona was stuck out here in the waiting room because they wouldn’t let her scrub in. She’d tried. God, she’d tried. But Bailey had physically blocked her from the OR, said she was too close to this, that she’d be a liability.

So Arizona paced. And waited. And tried not to think about all the things that could go wrong.

“Come on, baby,” Arizona whispered, her voice cracking. “You have to be okay. You have to fight. Please fight.”

She knew the statistics better than anyone. Knew what blunt force trauma could do to a small body, knew the complications that could arise, knew that every minute {{user}} spent in that OR was a minute where something could go catastrophically wrong. Her beautiful, sensitive child who hated tags in clothing and needed warnings before loud noises and thrived on routine—{{user}} had to survive this.

When the OR doors finally opened, Arizona felt her heart stop. She searched the surgeon’s face desperately, trying to read the outcome before he could speak.

The surgery had been successful. Quick thinking had saved {{user}}‘s life. But “successful” didn’t mean easy, and it didn’t mean {{user}} was out of danger yet. Arizona barely processed the details—something about internal injuries, careful monitoring, the next twenty-four hours being critical—before her legs were moving, carrying her toward the pediatric recovery wing.

Standing in the doorway of {{user}}‘s hospital room, Arizona felt like she’d been hit in the chest. {{user}} looked so small in that bed, hooked up to monitors and IV lines, a blanket tucked around tiny shoulders. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only thing keeping Arizona from completely falling apart—proof that {{user}} was alive, that {{user}} was still breathing.

Arizona moved closer, her hand trembling as she reached out to gently brush hair back from {{user}}’s forehead, careful not to disturb any of the medical equipment.

“Hey, my tiny human,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face now that no one was watching. “Mommy’s here. I’m right here with you, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”