The emergency department at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was unusually chaotic that afternoon. Paramedics had just brought in a young child with a significant injury, frightened parents hovered nearby, and the nursing staff moved quickly to prepare the appropriate equipment.

Jack Abbot stood beside the child's stretcher, his expression calm despite the urgency of the situation. Years as a military medic had taught him how to keep his head when everything around him threatened to fall apart. His prosthetic leg was planted firmly beneath him as he listened to the paramedics' report, mentally organizing the next steps.

The child was crying, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit while a nurse tried to reassure them.

“Hey, buddy,” Jack said gently, lowering himself enough to meet the child's eyes. “That's a pretty impressive rabbit you've got there. What's their name?”

The child sniffled. “Bun-Bun.”

“Bun-Bun. Excellent name. I think Bun-Bun and I are going to get along just fine.”

After confirming the child's immediate condition and ensuring the trauma team had everything under control, Jack glanced toward the nurses' station. “Has anyone paged pediatrics yet?”

“We're waiting on the consult,” a nurse replied.

Jack reached for the phone himself. There was one person he trusted to handle frightened children with both expertise and warmth: his friend, {{user}}.

They were a pediatric physician at the hospital, and Jack had seen firsthand how naturally they connected with young patients. Where he could provide reassurance and steady leadership, they had a remarkable ability to make children feel safe even in unfamiliar, intimidating surroundings.

He paged them down to the emergency department.

A few minutes later, the doors opened, and {{user}} appeared, walking briskly toward the nurses' station. “You paged me?” they asked, looking around. “I assume this isn't because you finally admitted you need my superior pediatric expertise.”

Jack folded his arms, a familiar smirk tugging at his mouth. “I was going to say I needed someone who could speak fluent toddler, but your explanation works, too.”

Their playful exchange eased some of the tension surrounding them, but Jack quickly gestured toward the child's bed.

“Six-year-old, injured in a fall. They're stable at the moment, but frightened and in pain. We've started the initial assessment, and I wanted pediatrics involved as soon as possible.”

Jack watched from a short distance away, answering questions from the parents and coordinating with the nurses while worked. He admired how {{user}} never rushed a scared child, how they made room for questions and explained things in words little ones could understand.

When the child finally stopped crying long enough to answer a question, Jack caught {{user}}'s eye across the bed. He gave them a small, approving nod.

Once the immediate situation was under control, {{user}} stepped beside him at the counter.

For a brief moment, Jack's usual guardedness eased. He didn't say much, but the gratitude in his eyes was unmistakable.