A/N: I met a little girl just like the one in this story - it broke my heart!

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Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight.

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Chapter 4: Moral Support

BPOV

As soon as I possibly could, I got the hell out of that hospital room. I felt a little tired, but otherwise fine. I didn't give a shit about Edward Cullen's scare tactics; if my tests were normal, then I was fine. And if I wasn't fine, then there wasn't much anyone could do for me, because it's pretty damn hard to come up with a diagnosis if nothing appears to be wrong. In most cases of random illnesses or problems, the answer is stress.

And maybe I was stressed, or at least more than I thought. This little escapade into the ER didn't make matters any better, that was for sure.

I practically ran up the hill to my house when I finally got off the train, and decided that I would just head straight to work. It was 7 am, and rounds were in an hour. I could make it.

I showered and dressed quickly, and sprinted out the door with a half hour to spare. The crowds on the train were just beginning to build, but I never really minded. I enjoyed the morning commute in a busy city; I just watched people get on and off the train, guessing where they were going, what they did. I did this in the hospital, too, where people's emotions ran the complete spectrum: relief, shock, joy, despair. If you took the time to look, you could learn a lot about your patients that way.

When I arrived at SFGH just a few minutes to 8, I raced to the ER and found my attending, waiting impatiently by the nurse's station. I saw most of the members of his team, but he was waiting for a few people. At least I wasn't late.

"Ah, Bella," he said. "We missed you yesterday."

Dr. Denali was a kind, old man, but definitely eccentric. I never knew what was going to come out of his mouth.

"I know, I really apologize," I said. I had talked to him yesterday about the whole fiasco, but I still felt the need to apologize in person.

"Not to worry," he said. "You just made some of your patients very unhappy when you didn't come in. They get attached, you know."

I smiled sadly. They weren't the only ones who got attached.

The rest of the team finally showed up, and we made our way through the wards, checking in on the day's patients. We saw everything here, including some very troubling, very sad cases. It wasn't uncommon to see a child here without her parents, who couldn't afford to miss a day of work. I tried to spend extra time with those kids.

When our rounds ended an hour later, I looked at my list of patients and made my way from room to room. I was frequently interrupted, as always—people asking questions, needing my signature, consulting on cases. Patients always complained about how little time they actually saw with the doctor, and this was why. I was just a resident, so I had to answer to the senior doctors, but I did the best I could to sit with the kids and their families, for as long as I could.

The last patient on my list was a little Down Syndrome girl, a three-year-old whose parents I hadn't seen since she was admitted four days ago. I knocked gently on her door, and she was in her crib, humming softly.

"Hey, Maria," I said, reaching in to lift her out. She was miserable from all the IV's and wires and everything else, but her whole face lit up at the first touch of my fingers. She giggled happily when I handed her a new toy, and I rocked her in my lap in the stark, sterile room. My heart broke for her, because I was all she had for today, and every day that she had been here.

A gentle knock came at the door, and I tensed. One of the older, grumpier nurses didn't seem to like the fact that I did this, like I was intruding on her territory. Well, whatever. This little one was my patient, too.

But it wasn't the nurse. It was Rosalie.

"Rosalie?! I've been trying to contact you for days!" I exclaimed, and that was true.

"Really? I'm sorry, Bella. My phone…broke," she explained weakly.

"Your phone broke?! And what the hell happened to your face?" I saw the purplish bruises around her left eye, and the deep cut along her jaw. Her face was still stunningly beautiful, but mangled.

"It's a long story," she mumbled.

"I even went by your house, Rosalie. You weren't there, either. I was so worried about you," I said, exasperated.

"I'm sorry, Bella. It really is a long story. I'll tell you…when I can."

"Tell me now," I said firmly.

"I can't," she said, her blue eyes pleading.

"Sit down," I demanded. I gestured to the seat next to me, while Maria shifted in my lap, humming and smiling, completely oblivious to the tension in the room.

"I came to see you yesterday, too," she said. "But you weren't here."

"Yeah," I mumbled. "I had a bit of an episode."

"What kind of episode?"

"I fainted while running. Nothing major."

"You fainted? What happened?"

"Rosalie, don't try and turn this on me. What the hell happened to you?"

She was fidgeting nervously, stalling. I had known Rosalie since high school, and she never had a problem getting words out.

"I…fell," she said. "Down the stairs."

"Jeezus, Rosalie, that's the oldest excuse in the book for getting pummeled in the face. Don't lie to me," I said harshly, because I was really worried now, and I didn't know how else to get through to her.

"But I really did fall down the stairs! I mean, he pushed me, I guess…and I fell," she mumbled. "But I swear to God, Bella, it only happened this one time!"

"Who the fuck pushed you?" I said, my voice scathing. Not at Rosalie, but the prick who did this.

"At work…it happened at work."

Rosalie had a gorgeous body, and she used it to support herself and a few other essential people in her life. She worked at a fairly upscale club in the city, at least according to her—I had never actually been there. And I knew nothing about the dirty details of who she worked for, or what she owed them. Rosalie always refused to tell me anything.

"Was it someone you work for? A customer?"

"Bella, I can't talk about this. And it doesn't matter, it's fine. I just need a medical opinion about something."

"I'm your friend, not your doctor." My tone was urgent, concerned.

"Please, Bella," she pleaded, and it sounded so pathetic coming from her bruised lips that I felt my anger give way to guilt. What kind of friend allowed something like this to happen? And why hadn't she come to me sooner?

"Okay, but please, Rosalie. You have to tell me who did this to you, and exactly how it happened. I can't help you medically if I don't know the truth."

She exhaled sharply, searching my eyes for understanding. I said nothing and waited for her to start.

"I was arguing with my…supervisor," she began, although I had a feeling she was sugarcoating that last word. "He wanted me to offer more…services."

"Rosalie, you don't have to give me the PG version."

"I know, but you know what I mean," she sighed. "I need the money, but I'm not a whore, Bella. There's a difference between stripping and whoring."

I cringed at the edge in her voice, especially the way she used those labels so casually. I saw plenty of prostitutes in this hospital, but Rosalie was right, stripping was an entirely different thing. It was legal, for one thing, and sex wasn't involved.

"I know that," I said.

"But it's no secret that the guys who run the club also pimp out girls on the side. So we had an argument, and…this happened."

"Did he hit you?" I asked, because it sure looked like it.

"Is that important?" she asked, glancing down at her hands.

"I'm worried about you, Rosalie. It doesn't matter how it happened, but it matters that you get yourself the hell out of there."

"I can't, Bella. I need the money and I'm good at what I do."

"I know you are, but it's not worth it," I said truthfully. I wasn't thrilled with Rosalie's profession, but it wasn't my place to say much—until now.

"Will my face look normal again?" she asked.

I looked at her carefully. It didn't look like it would scar, but I couldn't be positive. A large part of me wanted it to scar, so that her boss or whoever the fuck it was would fire her.

"Yes, most likely," I said.

"Okay, well I have another problem, too," she mumbled. "I think my knee is fucked up."

"What's wrong with it?"

"The unhappy triad or something."

I gave her a quizzical expression, wondering where the hell Rosalie Hale had come up with some random medical terminology like the 'unhappy triad.'

"Let me see," I said.

She jutted her leg out, and I did the standard test for a torn ACL. Well, shit, she definitely had busted the unhappy triad. And the expression on her face told me she already knew that.

"Who told you that phrase?" I asked.

"A doctor."

"Where?"

"At the hospital."

"For God's sake, Rosalie, can you stop being so difficult? Just tell me who."

She sighed, and her fidgeting hands traveled to the long locks of blond hair that fell down the front of her shoulders.

"That doctor you talked about. Edward Cullen," she said.

My heart actually skipped a beat when his name sounded in my ears, from anger or annoyance or surprise, I wasn't sure which.

"You were in the hospital at UC?" I asked. "When?"

"Last week…"

"Rosalie, you should have told me!"

"I didn't want you to do something drastic while I was in there," she muttered.

"Listen, that Cullen guy said I would need surgery and nine months to recover. Isn't there something else you could do, Bella? I don't have insurance and I can't just sit on my ass for nine months!"

Then, suddenly, it clicked in my head. I remembered Edward Cullen's parting words—he had mentioned Rosalie. He had asked me about her, and I was too flustered and annoyed to think about why. He knew who I was when he met me. He had ambushed me, and in a truly maddening fashion, he knew I would realize it as soon as I talked to Rosalie.

"What is it, Bella?" she asked, reading the anger in my expression.

"Nothing," I huffed. "The only treatment for an ACL tear is surgery. Just make sure you find a good one."

"Bella, didn't you hear what I just said?! I can't afford that! Don't you know anyone who can help me?"

"I'm not a surgeon, Rosalie!" I said exasperatedly. And I didn't know any surgeons who just handed out their skills for free. Medicine didn't work that way, unfortunately.

"What about Edward Cullen? Isn't he a surgeon?" she asked. "He knows I know you. Maybe he'll help me."

"What?!" I exclaimed. "No, don't go to that asshole. He's a prick and wouldn't give you a bedpan for free if you asked him."

"But you spoke highly of him before," she said. "I remembered that in the hospital and asked for him."

"Well, I was wrong. I'll find you a surgeon, somehow."

"You said he's the best," she pressed.

My face reddened in exasperation. "I don't actually know him," I said.

"But he knows me, Bella! I'll just make an appointment, and you can come with me."

"No, definitely not," I said.

"Please, Bella? You promised you would help me," she pleaded. Did she really just pull the 'you promised' card?

"I'll…think about it," I grumbled. "But I'm telling you, Edward Cullen wouldn't do shit for free."

"Well, maybe he knows someone who would."

"I doubt it," I groaned. "Look, Rosalie, I know you're worried about your career. But you have much more pressing problems." I gave her a hard, burning stare, making sure she knew exactly what I was talking about.

"I don't have a choice, Bella," she said in a tiny voice. I sighed, because I didn't know what else to say to her.

"When is your next shift?" I asked.

"Tonight," she mumbled.

"Then I'm going with you."

"No!" she exclaimed, looking panicked. "You can't do that, Bella."

"I am," I said. "And don't even think about arguing with me."

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Edward's POV next chapter...