Disclaimer: I do not own facts (including Bethany Hamilton and her story). I do not own Soul Surfer. I do not own the deleted scene that this fic is based on. I don't even possess knowledge of whether or not this scene (or one like it) happened in real life.

"Get the doctor, Noah, get the doctor."

"Got it."

It hurt. Her arm – what was left of it – hurt. She hurt over the loss of her limb. I hurt – all of us hurt –, just seeing her suddenly so weak, vulnerable, fragile. Hurt.

And why shouldn't it? She'd lost her arm to a shark and I'd nearly lost my little sister to blood loss. It was a miracle she was alive to hurt at all.

I marched to the room door. Through the little window, I saw a strange woman standing outside. What is it with people that they can't stand a decent distance from the door? I popped the door open and she backed up to let me through. "Excuse me." Starting down the hallway, I announced, "We need Dr. Rovinsky."

"How is she?"

The voice came quite unexpectedly from behind and to my left. I turned, but didn't slow down. The woman outside our door. She wore yellow, was blonde, and held something – I didn't care what – to her mouth. "Who are you?"

"I'm Patricia Leigh Brown –"

Nope. Go away. Don't sound familiar.

"– from the New York Times."

Yeah, no wonder. Reporters. Just have to stick your noses into everybody's business, don't you? Let me guess what's com–

"I just got word that a young surfer girl was attacked by a shark. Can you comment?"

I stopped. She hadn't even paused for breath between those two thoughts. It had just been a run-on sentence. Reporters. She held the recorder in front of me. In a split-second, a dozen thoughts flashed through my head. "Comment"? Why? What is there to "comment" on? She knows what she needs to know: there was a shark attack and Bethany is clearly in the hospital. She probably knows that Bethany lost her arm and she probably even knows everything that happened on the North Shore. For heaven's sakes, she probably knows my middle name! Okay, maybe not, but seriously. "Comment"? I was fed up.

Maybe I shouldn't have said anything and just continued on my hunt for Dr. Rovinsky, ignoring her, the recorder, and the question entirely. Maybe. But instead, I answered her.

"Yeah. She's my sister and not a headline."

Author's note: Please review.