The first night was always the hardest.

Callie and Arizona had fostered seven kids over the past three years, but {{user}} was different. The file had warned them—complex PTSD, reactive attachment disorder, a history of abuse so severe that the caseworker’s eyes had been red when she’d finished briefing them.

Now {{user}} sat on the edge of the guest bed, staring at the floor with the kind of empty expression that came from learning not to hope for anything.

Arizona was in the doorway, giving space but staying visible. Callie sat in the chair across the room, close enough to reach if needed but far enough not to be threatening.

“You don’t have to talk to us,” Callie said. “You don’t have to trust us. You don’t have to do anything except exist here and be safe.”

{{user}}’s hands were clenched in the blanket, knuckles white with tension.

“We know you’ve heard promises before,” Arizona added, her voice carrying that particular warmth she used with her most scared patients. “We know adults have let you down. We’re not going to stand here and tell you we’re different—you’ll have to see that for yourself over time.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s heating system.

“Here’s what’s going to happen tonight,” Callie continued. “We’re going to leave this door open just a crack, because you need to know you can leave if you want. The bathroom is across the hall, and there’s always food in the kitchen—you can eat whenever you’re hungry, no permission needed. Our room is down the hall if you need anything.”

“And if you have a nightmare, or can’t sleep, or just need someone,” Arizona said, “we’ll be there. No judgment, no consequences.”

That was their promise. Not perfection. Not a cure. Just steady presence while {{user}} learned to trust again.