Callie’s scrubs were stained with blood—{{user}}‘s blood—and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how many times she clenched them into fists. It had happened so fast. One moment {{user}} had been right there beside her outside the hospital daycare, the next {{user}} had bolted toward the parking lot, overwhelmed by the chaos of shift change—too many people, too much noise, sensory overload hitting hard and fast.

Callie had screamed {{user}}’s name, had started running, but the reversing car had been faster.

The sound of impact would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Now she paced the surgical waiting room while Arizona was in the OR with {{user}}. Arizona—the pediatric surgeon with the steadiest hands Callie had ever seen, the woman who’d saved countless children—was the one operating on their own child. Callie had wanted to scrub in, had tried to, but Owen had physically stopped her because she was too close to this, too emotional, and she would be a liability in that OR.

So instead she was out here. Helpless. Powerless.

“Please be okay, mija,” Callie whispered, her voice breaking. “Please, please be okay.”

She knew the statistics. Knew what blunt force trauma could do to a small body. Knew every possible complication that could arise during surgery. Her beautiful, sensitive child who struggled with certain textures and loud sounds and needed routines to feel safe—{{user}} had to survive this.

When the OR doors finally opened and Arizona emerged, still in her surgical gown with exhaustion written across her face, Callie’s heart stopped. She searched Arizona’s expression desperately, trying to read the outcome before words could deliver the verdict.

The surgery had been successful. Arizona’s skill and quick decision-making had saved {{user}}‘s life. But “successful” didn’t mean easy, and it didn’t mean {{user}} was completely out of danger yet. Callie barely heard the details before she was moving, her legs carrying her toward the pediatric recovery wing on autopilot.

Standing in the doorway of {{user}}‘s hospital room, Callie felt like she couldn’t breathe. {{user}} looked impossibly small in that bed, surrounded by monitors and IV lines, a blanket tucked carefully around tiny shoulders. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor was the only thing keeping Callie from completely falling apart—proof that {{user}} was alive, that {{user}} was still here.

Callie 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, baby,” she whispered in Spanish, her voice thick with tears. “Mama’s here. I’m right here, mija. You’re safe now.”

Arizona appeared in the doorway, still in her scrubs, and came to stand on {{user}}‘s other side. She took Callie’s free hand and squeezed it tight.

“Our tiny human is strong,” Arizona said softly. “Just like both moms.”