Arizona had been in the hospital for three days before she was stable enough for {{user}} to visit.

Three days since the plane crash. Three days since she’d spent four days in the woods with a mangled leg, wondering if they’d ever be found. Three days since the rescue, the emergency surgery, the infection that had forced them to amputate below the knee to save her life.

She was alive. She kept telling herself that.

Arizona had asked for {{user}} to be kept away at first—she didn’t want her daughter to see her like this. Didn’t want {{user}}’s memory of her mother replaced with this broken version hooked up to machines.

But apparently {{user}} had reached her limit.

Arizona heard the commotion before her door burst open—{{user}} having clearly pushed past whoever tried to stop her. The look on {{user}}‘s face when she saw Arizona made Arizona’s heart shatter.

{{user}}‘s eyes went wide, taking in the hospital bed, the IV lines, the bandages, the shape of the blanket where Arizona’s leg should be. Her face went pale.

“Mom—” {{user}}’s voice broke, and then she was crossing the room in stumbling steps, reaching for Arizona like she needed to confirm she was real.

“Hey, baby, I’m okay,” Arizona said, even though it was a lie. “I’m okay—”

“I thought you were dead,” {{user}} sobbed, hands shaking as they hovered over Arizona. “They said the plane crashed and I thought—”

Arizona pulled {{user}} into as much of a hug as she could manage.

“I’m here. I’m alive. I’m right here.”

That had been two weeks ago. Two weeks, and {{user}} hadn’t left her side for more than minutes at a time.

{{user}} refused to leave the hospital. Wouldn’t go home, wouldn’t go to school, slept in the chair next to Arizona’s bed. Any time Arizona went for tests or physical therapy—anything that required {{user}} to not be in the room—{{user}} spiraled. Crying, hyperventilating, convinced that if she let Arizona out of her sight, something terrible would happen.

Now, Arizona sat in her hospital bed watching {{user}} curl up in that chair, arms wrapped around knees, eyes fixed on Arizona like she might disappear.

The child psychologist had just left after talking to them both, explaining that {{user}} was experiencing severe separation anxiety—a trauma response to almost losing Arizona. That they needed to work on gradual exposure, short separations building up over time.

But right now, Arizona just needed to talk to her daughter.

“Come here, baby,” Arizona said softly, patting the bed beside her.