It had been a relatively quiet shift at Firehouse 51—the kind of day where Leslie actually had time to restock and organize the rig properly. She was in the back of Ambulance 61, checking inventory and making sure everything was exactly where it needed to be, when the alarm went off.

“Ambulance 61, domestic disturbance, injuries unknown. 2417 West Monroe Street.”

Leslie exchanged a look with Dawson as they both climbed into the front of the ambo. Domestic calls were common in Chicago—unfortunately common. Usually it was a husband and wife who’d gotten physical with each other, neighbors called it in, and by the time 61 arrived, the cops had already separated everyone and the injuries were minor.

“Another Tuesday in Chicago,” Shay muttered as Dawson pulled out of the firehouse, lights and sirens on.

They arrived at the house within minutes. Sure enough, there were already two squad cars parked out front, and Leslie could see officers leading two people out in handcuffs—a man and a woman, both with visible scrapes and bruises, both yelling at each other even as they were being separated.

Leslie grabbed the medical bag and climbed out of the rig, already mentally preparing for the eye-roll-worthy injuries she was about to assess. She caught Dawson’s eye and was about to make a joke about heterosexuals when a uniformed officer hurried over, his expression serious.

“Paramedics, we need you inside,” he said urgently. “There’s a child.”

Shay’s entire demeanor shifted instantly. The sarcasm vanished. Her jaw tightened.

“A child?” she repeated sharply. “How injured?”

“We’re not sure. The kid won’t let us close enough to check,” the officer said, gesturing toward the house.

Shay was already moving toward the front door, Dawson right behind her. They stepped into the house—messy, furniture overturned, clear signs of a fight—and Leslie’s eyes immediately scanned the space.

She spotted {{user}} almost immediately. Huddled in the corner of the living room, small and scared, with visible injuries that made Leslie’s chest tighten with anger. There were two more officers nearby, keeping their distance but trying to figure out how to approach.

Leslie held up a hand to the officers, her voice calm but firm. “Give us some space. Let me handle this.”

She moved slowly toward {{user}}, crouching down a few feet away so she wasn’t towering over the child. She set the medical bag down gently and kept her hands visible, her body language as non-threatening as possible.

“Hey, sweetie,” Leslie said softly, her voice warm and steady. “My name’s Leslie, but everyone calls me Shay. I’m a paramedic—that means I help people who are hurt. Can you tell me your name?”

She didn’t reach out yet. Didn’t crowd. Just stayed where she was, letting {{user}} see that she wasn’t a threat.

“I know today’s been really scary,” Leslie continued gently. “And I know there are a lot of people here right now, and that’s probably overwhelming. But I need to make sure you’re okay. I can see you’re hurt, and I want to help you feel better. Is that alright?”

Her blue eyes were full of compassion and patience. She’d done this before—talked to scared kids, earned their trust when they had every reason not to trust anyone.

“You’re not in trouble,” Shay added quietly. “I promise. None of this is your fault. I just want to help.”