Arizona loved the playroom.

It was her favorite place on the pediatric floor—bright colors, toys scattered everywhere, the sound of kids actually being kids instead of patients. It was where her tiny humans got to forget about IVs and blood draws and scary medical procedures for a little while. Where they could just play.

She’d been making her afternoon rounds, checking on post-op patients and reviewing charts, when she heard raised voices coming from the direction of the playroom.

Not typical playroom sounds. Not laughter or excited squealing. Upset voices. Adult and child both.

Arizona’s protective instincts kicked in immediately, and she headed toward the commotion.

The playroom was usually peaceful—supervised by volunteers and orderlies who were trained to keep things calm and safe. But right now, near the snack table where someone was distributing jello cups, there was clearly a situation happening.

An orderly stood with hands on hips, looking frustrated. Two children stood in front of him—one was maybe eight years old, arms crossed, face red with indignation. The other was smaller, younger, pressed back against the wall with wide eyes.

“I’m telling you, this one cut in line!” the older child was saying, pointing at the smaller kid. “I was waiting and then just pushed right in front of me!”

“Okay, we can work this out,” the orderly was saying, clearly trying to manage the situation. “But first, you need to apologize.” He directed this at the smaller child. “You can’t cut in line. That’s not fair to the other kids. Say you’re sorry.”

The smaller child’s face scrunched up, and Arizona watched as small hands moved frantically—fingers to chest, then in a circular motion. Over and over. Desperate. Upset.

The orderly frowned. “I need you to use your words. Say ‘I’m sorry.’”

The child’s hands moved faster, more frantic, eyes filling with tears.

“Stupidhead won’t even say sorry!” the older child said. “They’re just standing there!”

Arizona moved forward immediately, her brain having already processed what her eyes were seeing.

“Hey, everyone,” Arizona said, her voice calm and warm but commanding enough to get attention. “I’ve got this. Thank you.”

The orderly looked relieved to hand off the situation. “Dr. Robbins, this kid cut in line and won’t apologize—”

“I understand,” Arizona said gently, already crouching down to the smaller child’s level. “But I think there might be a misunderstanding happening here.”

She looked at the child—{{user}}, according to the hospital bracelet—and watched those small hands still moving frantically in that same pattern.

Sign language. {{user}} was signing “sorry” over and over.

“{{user}},” Arizona said softly, making sure she had eye contact. “I see you. I see what you’re saying.”

She brought her own hand to her chest, then moved it in the same circular motion. The sign for “sorry.”

{{user}}’s eyes went wide, the panic shifting slightly to surprise.

Arizona turned to the older child and the orderly.

“{{user}} has been apologizing,” Arizona explained gently. “In sign language. You just couldn’t see it because you don’t know sign language.”

The older child’s angry expression faltered. “Oh.”

The orderly looked embarrassed. “I didn’t—I had no idea—”

“It’s okay,” Arizona said, keeping her tone kind. “These things happen. But now we know.”

She turned back to {{user}}, who was still pressed against the wall, looking overwhelmed and scared.

Arizona signed again—slowly, clearly: “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Arizona looked at the chart clipped to {{user}}‘s hospital gown—saw the note about autism, about being nonverbal, about the communication methods. All things the orderly should have known but probably hadn’t checked.

“{{user}},” Arizona said gently, “did you know you were cutting in line? Or did you just see the jello and not realize?”