The Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was never quiet, but tonight felt especially heavy.

Arizona made her way down the hallway, tablet in hand, reviewing the status of her patients. Room 201 was stable post-surgery, finally responding well to treatment. Room 203 had shown improvement overnight—always a relief. But Room 205 was the one keeping her up at night, the case that had her double-checking every decision.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting that particular hospital glow that made everything feel suspended in time. Parents dozed in uncomfortable chairs beside tiny beds, monitors beeped their steady rhythms, and the nursing staff moved with the quiet efficiency that came from years of caring for the sickest children.

Arizona paused at the central nursing station, making notes in a patient chart while keeping half an eye on the controlled chaos around her. A new admission was coming up from the ER in twenty minutes—motorcycle accident, multiple trauma, only fourteen years old. She’d already prepped OR 3 just in case.

“Dr. Robbins?” one of the night nurses called out. “Room 208 is asking for you. Parents have some questions about the morning procedure.”

Arizona nodded, closing the chart. “I’ll be right there.”

She grabbed her stethoscope from the counter and started down the hall, her bright purple scrubs a splash of color in the sterile environment. This was her domain—where the tiniest patients fought the biggest battles, and where she got to be part of their victories.

Another night in the PICU, another chance to make miracles happen.