We were playing in the yard when Jan suddenly froze, toy tanks in mid-crash, and stared at the wavering horizon. I followed his gaze. There, coming towards us through the shimmering heat, was a person. I frowned. We watched in silence for several minutes as the figure came closer, stumbling slightly. "Annika," Jan whispered, "where is that person coming from? Mos Dega is in the complete opposite direction, and so's Mos Eisley. There's nothing that direction but Sand People and Jawas."
"Well," I mused, "it's too tall for a Jawa..."
"Which means it's a Sand Person."
"Not necessarily," I said. Jan was terrified of the Tuskan Raiders, especially since they'd killed our old slave Milo the past month, and I didn't want him getting worked up about this. And anyhow, so far as I could tell by the heat-warped silhouette moving slowly towards us, this was no Sand Person. I told Jan this. He said nothing; he just sat there, on hands and knees with a miniature battle tank in one hand, watching the visitor's approach intently.
The person stumbled again, took a few steps, and collapsed. He or she did not rise, and I felt a sudden urgency. "Jan," I said, "go in and get Dad." He looked at me but did not move. "GO!" I said, and ran for the stranger. He hurried inside as I skidded to a halt in the sand next to the new arrival.
It was a young man, lying face down, his hair and foreign clothes turned sandy from the desert dust. There were what looked like burns in his back, and when I rolled him over I found dozens more sprayed across his upper half, and a couple on his right leg. Blaster wounds. He looked dead, or nearly so, but I could still hear breathing. "Jan!" I screamed. "Dad! Mum! Come quickly!" I lifted the man's head and tried to shake him awake, but he did not stir.
Then Dad came running up, sucking in his breath when he saw why I'd called him. "Annika," he barked, "go into town and get Zola. Take the landspeeder. Jan, you too. Go! Now, hurry!"
We ran for the old speeder and jumped in. Though I was only fourteen, I had been driving it since I was eight - Jan, at ten, was already proficient enough to run errands. He would watch the vehicle while I was in the doctor's office to make sure it wasn't stolen.
It was a ten minute trip into Mos Dega, and we passed it in silence. When we arrived, I jumped out before the speeder was even stopped, shouting at Jan, "Stay there!" Doctor Zola was the only physician for fifty miles, and when I burst into his office, I nearly crashed into him heading out the door with his medical bag.
"Doctor Zola!" I gasped, "There's an emergency! It's a man - blaster fire - severely burned-"
The doctor's face lit up. "Blaster fire?" he asked, excited. "I'll come at once! Let me get my things!" He ran into the back room and reemerged with a new, larger bag. "Come on! No time to lose!"
We hurried to the speeder and I raced back to the farm. The whole time Zola babbled on about how exhilarating it would be to treat a blaster injury again. "You can't imagine how boring it is out here," he said, "treating farming accidents and the occasional Tuskan Raid victim. Oh, I haven't had a real war wound in - in I don't know how many years..." His eyes glazed over and he faded off, no doubt remembering days as a young cadet in the Republic Medical Corps, treating soldiers during the Clone Wars. Doctor Zola really wasn't that old, but years in the desert had weathered his face so he looked ten years older that he really was. I wondered briefly what he'd used to look like. Then we were at the house, and running inside.