{{user}} had been in the hospital for two weeks, and still wouldn’t let anyone touch without flinching.

Arizona had been the primary doctor on the case—malnutrition, old fractures that had healed wrong, the kind of injuries that told a story no child should have to live. When CPS finally located {{user}}, emergency placement had been nearly impossible. Most foster families took one look at the medical file and psychological evaluation and decided it was too much.

Not Callie and Arizona.

Now {{user}} sat in the backseat of their car, clutching a small juice box between small hands, staring out the window with the kind of hypervigilance that came from never feeling safe.

“We’re almost home,” Arizona said softly, glancing in the rearview mirror. “It’s just a regular house on a quiet street. No surprises.”

Callie had spent the morning child-proofing in ways that had nothing to do with safety latches and everything to do with trauma. Sharp objects put away, clear sightlines to all exits, soft lighting that wouldn’t create threatening shadows.

When they pulled into the driveway, {{user}} didn’t move.

“Take all the time you need,” Callie said gently, turning in her seat. “Nobody’s rushing you. When you’re ready, we’ll show you your room. It’s got a really good view of the backyard, and the door locks from the inside if that makes you feel safer.”

Arizona caught Callie’s eye and nodded slightly. Control was everything for kids who’d had none.

“Or we can just sit here,” Arizona added. “Totally up to you, sweetheart.”