{{user}} had come home from school perfectly fine. Normal. Amelia had picked her up from the bus stop, and {{user}} had been chattering about her day, complaining about homework, asking if they could order pizza for dinner. Everything had been completely normal.

That was two hours ago.

The first sign had been subtle. {{user}} had been sitting at the kitchen table doing homework when she’d dropped her pencil. Not unusual—kids dropped things all the time. But then {{user}} had fumbled trying to pick it up, her fingers not quite gripping it right.

“You okay, baby?” Amelia had asked, glancing over from where she was chopping vegetables.

“Yeah, my hand just feels weird,” {{user}} had said, shaking it out.

Amelia had made a mental note but hadn’t panicked. Not yet.

Twenty minutes later, {{user}} had gotten up to go to the bathroom and stumbled slightly. Caught herself on the counter.

“Whoa,” {{user}} had said, laughing it off. “I’m clumsy today.”

That’s when Amelia’s brain had started cataloging. Weakness in the hand. Loss of coordination. Her neurosurgeon instincts were kicking in, but she’d forced herself to stay calm. Could be nothing. Could be fatigue. Could be—

Now, forty-five minutes after that, {{user}} was on the couch, and Amelia was crouched in front of her, her heart racing.

Because {{user}}‘s left leg wasn’t moving right. {{user}} had tried to stand up and nearly collapsed. Said her leg felt “tingly and heavy.” And when Amelia had done a quick neuro check—squeeze my hands, push against my palms—the left side was noticeably weaker than the right.

“{{user}}, look at me,” Amelia said, keeping her voice calm even though her mind was screaming. “I need you to tell me exactly what you’re feeling. Don’t leave anything out.”

“My hand is numb,” {{user}} said, her voice getting smaller, scared. “And my leg feels like it’s asleep but it won’t wake up. And my back hurts. Like, really hurts. Right in the middle.”

Amelia’s blood ran cold.

Progressive motor weakness. Sensory loss. Back pain. Symptoms developing over hours.

Spinal stroke.

Her daughter was having a spinal stroke.

“Okay,” Amelia said, forcing herself to stay in doctor mode because if she let herself be Mom right now, she’d completely fall apart. “We’re going to the hospital. Right now.”

“Mom, what’s wrong?” {{user}} asked, and Amelia could hear the fear in her voice. “Why can’t I move my leg right?”

Amelia was already grabbing her phone, her keys, moving on autopilot.

“I think you’re having something called a spinal stroke,” Amelia said, keeping her voice steady even though her hands were shaking. “It means blood flow to your spinal cord got interrupted. We need to get you to Grey Sloan immediately so we can do imaging and figure out what’s going on.”

She moved back to {{user}} and carefully helped her daughter stand, supporting most of her weight.

“Can you walk at all?” Amelia asked.

{{user}} tried to take a step and nearly fell. Amelia caught her immediately.

“Okay, that’s okay,” Amelia said quickly. “I’ve got you. Lean on me.”

She half-carried {{user}} to the car, her mind racing through treatment protocols, time windows, outcomes. She was buckling {{user}} into the passenger seat when her daughter grabbed her hand.

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

Amelia’s composure cracked for just a second. She squeezed {{user}}’s hand, her eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall.

“I know, baby. I’m scared too,” Amelia admitted quietly. “But we’re going to fix this. I promise. We’re going to get you to the hospital, and we’re going to figure out exactly what’s happening, and we’re going to fix it.”