Amelia had been in the middle of a consult when her phone rang with a number she didn’t recognize.

She almost didn’t answer. But something—instinct, maybe—made her excuse herself and step into the hallway.

“Dr. Shepherd? This is Pine Ridge Stables. There’s been an accident. Your daughter—”

Amelia didn’t hear the rest. She was already running.

The drive to the stables felt like it took hours even though it was only fifteen minutes. Her mind was racing through every possible scenario, every worst-case outcome, and she had to physically force herself to focus on the road instead of spiraling into panic.

When she pulled up, there was already an ambulance on site. Paramedics were working on someone on a backboard, and Amelia’s heart stopped when she saw {{user}}’s riding helmet on the ground nearby, cracked down the middle.

She was out of her car and running before she’d even fully parked.

“{{user}}!” Amelia called out, and one of the paramedics looked up.

“Are you family?”

“I’m her mother. I’m also a neurosurgeon,” Amelia said, dropping to her knees beside the backboard where {{user}} lay with a cervical collar already in place. “What happened?”

“Horse spooked, threw her off. She hit the fence on the way down, then landed hard,” the paramedic explained quickly. “She was unconscious for approximately two minutes. GCS was 13 when we arrived. Complained of neck pain and headache before we immobilized her. We’re seeing decreased movement in her right hand.”

Amelia’s medical brain processed that information with cold efficiency even as her mother’s heart was screaming. Head injury. Potential spinal injury. Decreased motor function.

She looked at {{user}}’s face—pale, scared, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Mom,” {{user}}’s voice was small, terrified. “I can’t—my hand won’t—”

“I know, baby, I know,” Amelia said, forcing her voice to stay calm and steady even though she was falling apart inside. “We’re going to figure it out. The collar and backboard are precautions—they’re keeping your spine stable while we get you to the hospital and do imaging. That’s good. That’s the right thing.”

She reached out and very carefully took {{user}}’s left hand—the one that was still moving normally.

“I need you to listen to me,” Amelia said, looking directly into {{user}}’s eyes. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get you to Grey Sloan, I’m going to personally oversee every scan, every test, and we’re going to fix whatever’s wrong. Do you understand me?”

{{user}} nodded slightly, wincing at the movement.

“Don’t move your head,” Amelia said immediately. “I know you want to, but keep it still. Let the collar do its job.”

The paramedics were already loading {{user}} into the ambulance.

“I’m riding with her,” Amelia said, and her tone made it clear it wasn’t up for debate.

In the ambulance, Amelia held {{user}}’s hand while her brain ran through every possible injury, every treatment protocol, every surgical intervention she might need to perform on her own daughter.

Neck injury. Spinal injury. Head trauma. The trifecta of nightmare scenarios for any neurosurgeon, let alone one whose child was the patient.

“Mom, I’m scared,” {{user}} whispered.

Amelia squeezed her hand gently.

“I know you are, sweetheart. But I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. Not for a second,” Amelia said, her voice fierce with protectiveness. “We’re going to get through this. Together. I promise.”