This story starts midway through PRISONERS OF THE SUN, after Tintin and Haddock have arrived in Peru and finally made it to the fictional town of Jauga, only to be denied any information on Calculus by a close-lipped police officer who seemed to know more than he was willing to tell. Now, Tintin and the Captain have temporarily split up, and are wandering through the town attempting to question the people of Jauga to find any information on where Calculus was taken.

I am not a fluent Spanish speaker, nor am I Peruvian. Nor Belgian, for that matter, so I am sure this story is full of inauthenticities. I apologize in advance, and welcome corrections.

"¡No sé!" was preying on Tintin's last nerve. He leaned against a brick wall and forced himself to take a deep breath.

The problem wasn't the complete lack of any new information that might lead to Calculus; it was that each person he questioned interrupted with "I don't know!" before he could ask any real questions. He'd asked it over and over: "¿Haz visto un hombre bajo, con una bar-" "¡NO SÉ!"

Tintin massaged his temple, then reached down to scratch Snowy behind the ears. He was starting to wonder if something sinister was at work. They all said "no sé", but their tones, body language, and tendency to bolt communicated "leave me alone" much louder. Would it be insane to suspect a conspiracy of silence? Was he paranoid to wonder if these Peruvian people were united in an effort to keep the clueless white guy as clueless as ever?

Across the street and up the block, Tintin's eye was drawn to a young girl with a long, dark braid and a striking red scarf. She carried a towering basket of oranges. Halfway down the street, she paused, balanced on her left foot, angled her right foot to slide her sandal halfway off, shook out a pebble, slipped her foot back into the sandal, and continued on her way. The whole process took less than five seconds and left not a single orange disturbed. Tintin was impressed. He set his frustration aside and started to cross the street towards her, determined to finish the question before accepting an answer this time.

Before he reached her, a sickening scene unfolded. Two white men, apparently bored, accosted the girl. One-a large, pale man in an rust-colored shirt-kicked her basket into her face. Both men laughed uproariously as the girl, face blank, knelt to collect her fallen oranges. Her poker face slipped when the same man stepped hard on her hand, and she cried out in pain as both continued to laugh. With her free hand, she pounded on his leg, hitting him until he stumbled away.

Tintin saw red. The rust-shirted pale man was already stumbling, tripping on the fallen oranges, but Tintin-who couldn't remember sprinting to the girl's side, though he must have-shoved him, hard. His head hit the wall, and he went down, landing in a heap at his friend's feet.

"Brute!" Tintin screamed. "Aren't you ashamed? ¡Ella es una hija!"

"¿Estás buscando camorra?" growled the standing white man, but the rust-shirt man motioned him aside as he rubbed his head. Tintin ignored them and knelt by the girl, who was cradling her hand. She looked to be a year or two younger than he. "¿Está usted lastimado? ¿Puedo ver su mano?"

Her dark eyes, too big for her face, widened as she slowly extended her arm. Without breaking eye contact, Tintin held her forearm steady, then gently pivoted her hand back and forth at the wrist. "¿Bueno?" he asked, and sighed in relief as she nodded.

He used a gentle fingertip to turn her hand over, for some reason sharply aware of his light, pale fingers against her dark brown skin. He swallowed. Her palm was scratched and cut from the gravel, but not badly. "Usted va a estar bien." He gently tugged on her red scarf, and met her eyes again to ask "¿Puedo…?" She nodded as he unwrapped it from her neck and gently but securely wrapped it around her hand. "Vamanos a mi amigo." Muttering to himself, he added, "The Captain's bound to have some alcohol nearby."

"Niña," the girl said softly as Tintin helped her stand.

"¿Perdón?" said Tintin.

"You said 'ella es una hija' before," she replied, sliding into an American accent for the English words, "but I'm nobody's daughter. You meant niña. And who's the Captain?"

Tintin could only stare. He wasn't expecting her to speak any English, let alone flawless, American English.

But, against his will, his brain was fixating less on her multilingualism and more on his vocabulary error. She was right; he should have called her niña, child, rather than hija-daughter. His mind racing, he replayed his own words in his mind: "¡Ella es una hija!". Then her words: "I'm nobody's daughter."

Was she an orphan, like him?

Had he just screamed the equivalent of "She's somebody's daughter!" at the rust-shirt man?

If he had-his stomach turned over-he had probably hurt her more deeply and sharply than the horrible man who'd kicked her, destroyed her wares, and stomped on her body.