Three weeks.

Arizona had lived through three weeks of absolute hell. Three weeks since {{user}} had vanished from the park playground while Arizona had turned her back for thirty seconds to grab a dropped sippy cup. Three weeks of police searches, news coverage, volunteers combing the city. Three weeks of Arizona barely sleeping, barely eating, barely functioning.

Three weeks of not knowing if her baby was alive or dead.

And then the call had come.

A driver had found a small child on the side of Highway 90, abandoned in the scorching Arizona heat. Responsive but barely conscious. Covered in bruises and injuries. The paramedics had brought the child to Grey Sloan, and the description matched {{user}}.

Arizona had run through the hospital faster than she’d ever moved in her life.

Now she stood outside the trauma bay, scrubbing in with shaking hands even though she knew she shouldn’t be the one treating her own daughter. But she had to see. Had to know. Had to touch {{user}} with her own hands and confirm her baby was really alive.

Bailey was inside, already working. When Arizona pushed through the doors, Bailey looked up.

“Arizona—” Bailey started, concern in her voice.

“Is it her?” Arizona asked, her voice breaking. “Is it {{user}}?”

Bailey stepped aside slightly, and Arizona saw the small figure on the trauma bed.

{{user}}. Unconscious. So small. Covered in bruises—some fresh, some fading yellow and green. Dehydrated. Sunburned. A gash on the forehead that would need stitches. Defensive wounds on small arms.

Arizona’s knees nearly gave out.

“It’s her,” Bailey confirmed quietly. “Vitals are stable but she’s severely dehydrated and malnourished. Temperature is elevated from heat exposure. We’re running a full trauma panel and getting fluids in her now.”

Arizona moved to the bedside on autopilot, her doctor brain warring with her mother’s heart. She reached out with trembling hands and gently touched {{user}}‘s arm—the one spot that wasn’t bruised.

“Baby,” Arizona whispered, her voice cracking. “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s got you now.”

{{user}} didn’t respond, still unconscious, but Arizona saw the chest rising and falling. Alive. Her baby was alive.

“Who did this?” Arizona asked, her voice suddenly hard. “Who hurt her?”

“We don’t know yet,” Bailey said. “Police are on their way. They’ll want to talk to you, and once {{user}} wakes up—if she can tell us anything—”

“When,” Arizona corrected sharply. “When she wakes up. Not if.”

Bailey nodded. “When she wakes up.”

Arizona’s hands moved with practiced efficiency even as tears streamed down her face, checking pupils, examining injuries, cataloging every mark on her daughter’s small body. Each bruise was a story she didn’t want to know. Each injury was three weeks of horror she couldn’t take back.

“You’re safe now, baby,” Arizona whispered. “Mommy’s got you. And I’m going to make sure nobody ever hurts you again. I promise.”