The toddler had been in the hospital for three days, and no one had come looking.

{{user}} had been found wandering alone in a park by a jogger. No identification, no frantic parents calling hospitals, no missing person reports that matched. Just a scared little kid who wouldn’t talk and flinched every time someone moved too quickly.

Arizona had been consulted for the medical evaluation—making sure {{user}} was healthy, checking for signs of abuse or neglect. What she’d found was a malnourished toddler with old bruises and the kind of wariness that broke her heart.

CPS was involved now, of course, but finding placement for such a young child with unknown background was proving difficult. In the meantime, {{user}} had become the unofficial ward of the pediatric floor.

Arizona found herself spending more and more time in {{user}}‘s room during breaks, bringing coloring books and soft toys, sitting quietly while {{user}} slowly started to trust that she was safe.

Right now, {{user}} was sitting in the hospital bed, clutching a stuffed elephant Arizona had brought from the gift shop, watching her with those huge, cautious eyes.

“Hey there, little one,” Arizona said softly, settling into the chair beside the bed. “How are we doing today? Did you eat some breakfast?”

She kept her voice gentle, her movements slow. Trust was everything with kids who’d been through trauma, and {{user}} was clearly carrying more than any toddler should have to.

“I brought you something new,” she continued, pulling out a small board book with bright pictures. “Want to look at it together? It’s about a little bunny who goes on adventures.”