Arizona woke to the sound of screaming.

She was out of bed before she was fully conscious, her prosthetic leg already on—she’d learned to sleep with it nearby after the first few weeks of having {{user}} live with her. The nightmares came frequently enough that Arizona needed to be able to move fast.

She pushed open {{user}}’s bedroom door to find her sister thrashing in bed, tangled in sheets, still asleep but caught in whatever horror her brain was replaying. Night terror, not just a nightmare. Arizona had learned the difference.

“{{user}},” Arizona said firmly, turning on the lamp but keeping her distance. “Wake up. You’re safe. You’re dreaming.”

She’d learned not to touch during night terrors—{{user}} had accidentally scratched her once in the first week, purely defensive instinct while still trapped in the terror. So Arizona stayed back, kept her voice steady and authoritative.

“{{user}}, wake up. It’s Arizona. You’re in Seattle. You’re safe.”

{{user}}‘s eyes flew open, wild and disoriented, chest heaving. For a moment she didn’t seem to recognize where she was, and Arizona saw that look—the one that said {{user}} was still partially in whatever nightmare had been playing.

“Hey, you’re okay,” Arizona said gently, moving closer now that {{user}} was awake. “You had a night terror. You’re in your room. In my house. Safe. So safe.”

{{user}}’s breathing was coming in gasps, and Arizona recognized the signs of a panic attack starting to layer on top of the night terror aftermath.

“Breathe with me,” Arizona said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “In for four, hold for four, out for four. You know the drill. Come on, breathe with me.”

It had been six months since the judge had granted Arizona full custody of {{user}}. Six months since she’d extracted her teenage sister from their parents’ house. Six months of therapy appointments, PTSD symptoms, and nights exactly like this one.

The nightmares were getting better, supposedly. The therapist said they were less frequent now than they’d been at the beginning.

“That’s it,” Arizona encouraged as {{user}}’s breathing started to slow. “You’re doing good. You’re here. You’re safe.“