Her

When a six year old sits on a chair that's far too big for her, swinging her tiny feet back and forth, tucked into herself, her blue eyes huge with fright, your stomach twists. Those eyes stare at you in hopeless confusion as you keep up a chain of bright, cheery chatter, trying to chase away the gloom of a hospital, trying to cover the silence of the night. It is late, and you wonder what she must have happened to cause the parents of such a little thing to admit her at this hour. Her small hands are wrapped around her stomach, her fine hair falling in her eyes. She watches, silent, tears brimming, as you pull clothing out of her bag, searching them for contraband, and you wish you lived in a world where you could trust a six year old not to hide needles in hemlines. You stare in some dismay at the stuffed animal; technically, toys aren't allowed on the unit, but it is clear this is her safety blanket. You sigh, hunt down the charge nurse, and bend the rules just a little.

She smiles when you give it to her, a soft, tentative smile full of nervousness and fear. She buries her little face into the animal's fur, and you long to wrap her in your arms. But you can't, of course you can't. But you still want to. Another staff shows her to her room as you take up the rounds; by the time you reach her room, she is fast asleep, her brow pinched with worry even then. You wonder if she is having a nightmare. You wonder if she'll think she's still dreaming when she wakes up surrounded by strangers. You wonder if she'll still be there by the time your next shift rolls around, of if she'll be home again.

Based on past experience, you're not sure which is better.