Mine, No More

    Shmi Skywalker woke up the next day and shouted for her son.  Hearing no response, she went to his room.  He could be such a lazy boy!  But as she was walking, she started to remember.  He had left.  Well, she had let him leave.  He had a great destiny before him, one which could not be fulfilled here on Tatooine.
    As she entered his empty room she sat down on his bed and cried, but it was no use.  And besides, what had he said?  That they would see each other again.  He had always had that special gift and she saw no reason to begin doubting him now.  Under the tutelage of the Jedi, his powers would only grow, right?  She would see her son again.  She knew this in her heart.  She just had to hang around long enough.
    Shmi took a deep breath to compose herself.  Watto would be expecting her, that flying worm.  Slaves don’t get to grieve.  The Jedi must have paid a tasty Trugut for Anakin, whose value to Watto must have only increased after his big win.  Well, dying in those races was one thing she wouldn’t need to worry about any more.  The Jedi would take good care of her son.
    Shmi poured some sunsmeal into a bowl.  She didn’t have the focus required to actually cook anything.  It was all she could do to pour some milk to go with it.  She sat at the sandstone table facing the door but found herself awaiting Anakin’s return.  She moved to sit on another stool, but that one was facing his bedroom, which was also unpleasant.  So Shmi stood by the sink and shoveled the food into her mouth.  When she was done, she left the unwashed bowl in the sink, the bottom covered by a shallow pool of blue, and walked out the door, the suns beating down on her face.

    “Hey, whattaya banya?  You’re late, Shmi,” Watto barked at her as she entered his shop.
    “Sorry,” She mumbled, looking down.  She’d always hated Watto, and now in his presence she felt an urge to avenge her newfound loneliness.  If it wasn’t for him, she could have left with Anakin.  But even if she could kill him, she'd only be condemning herself to death.  She swallowed her rage and said, “I’m here now, though.  What can I do?”
    “You can start by wiping down the shelves and the parts, anh?” His voice went to a nasally squeak at the end. “I’ll be in the back.  If anyone comes in to buy, come get me.  But if they’re only looking,” he swatted the air in front of him and then left fluttered out.

    Shmi opened the closet, revealing steps of hardened sand shelves.  She took the worn rag from the bucket on the shelf.  It stank.  Taking the pumice on the bottom shelf she went outside and hit the faded yellow rag against the walls of the shop a few times, then dragged the pumice across it.  If she were home she just would have used some water, but Watto was far too cheap for such things.  The pumice stone itself was several years old and in need of replacement – but no.  Watto would keep that pumice until the last grains.
    When the rag was as clean as it would get Shmi went back inside, relieved to see Watto was still in the back.  It was one mercy of his cheap habits – that he was too lazy to micromanage the shop and also too cheap to buy an overseer.  What’s he doing back there?  Probably to count his money again.

    But in fact Watto was doing no such thing.  For one thing, he kept the majority of his money in a secret hatch under his hammock-bed.  Most nights he lifted to ensure it was still there, but some nights he would stay up late counting it all before going to sleep.  Then he locked the hatch twice and covered it with a rug.  He also would check it again in the morning.
    It wasn’t all of his money, or even most.  The rest of his money was with Gardulla the Hutt, earning a steady supply of interest as she loaned it out to whatever ne’er-do-wells persuaded her they needed it and could pay it back.  But it was enough money to satisfy Watto’s lust, and to ward off insecurity.  Never knew when one needed a few thousand truguts at a moment’s notice.  It had never happened, but Watto didn’t want to be caught unawares.
    But, no.  Watto was out back checking his parts.  They were in reasonably working order – most of them anyway.  Well, many of them.  Enough he couldn’t be credibly accused of scamming anyone, but not so many his work could be called honest labor.  That was a luxury few on Tatooine could afford.  Cantina owners added sand to their mixtures to thicken them, docking bay operators insisted on all sorts of “convenience” fees to pad their pockets.  Watto comforted himself he was no worse than everyone else.

    The only ones who could be said to make an honest life were Jawas and Tusken Raiders.  Jawas sold junk, like Watto, but it was junk they’d found in the desert and everyone knew it.  They basically just charged finders’ fees, with Buyer Caveats as big as their Sandcrawlers.  What you see is what you get.  Nothing more, and hopefully nothing less.
    Tusken Raiders were removed from trade altogether, though rarely they would come to barter.  Wrapped in enough blankets to comfort a whole maternity ward, they lived in camps far from the towns and villages which had developed over the eons and largely kept to themselves.  Occasionally they’d come to raid, but never under the guise of doing anything else.  If you were lucky, you just woke up the next morning with some stuff missing, and a single-file line heading out to the desert.  If you weren’t lucky, you woke up during the night.  If you weren’t lucky and you were stupid, you tried to resist them.  Tusken Raiders were ruthless – but there was no deception about it.  An honest life.

    Content with the condition of most of his parts – which is to say, they all worked when tested long enough to sell – Watto went inside.  Shmi was still wiping down the parts.  “’ey, Shmi, what’sa all this?  Just give it a quick wipe anda move on, anh?”
    “Don’t you want it clean?”  Shmi asked, not turning her head.
    “Ai,” Watto groaned, putting his leathery hand to his head.  “No, no, just wiped.  We’re not selling to Senators.  Just wipe them enough they look nice.”
    Shmi picked up a 6 Thrust Coil, a long triangle with flat edges.  “So you mean it’s supposed to be this color?”
    Watto looked at the brown part and shrugged.  “Why not?  It goes in the engine.  Doesn’t matter what color it is.”
    Shmi rolled her eyes and put it back on the wooden shelf, which wobbled a bit.  I swear, this whole shop is one sandstorm away from ruin.  She quickly dusted the other parts.

    Watto went behind his counter to check his schedule.  While he allowed walk-ins, typically Watto preferred his customers to make appointments.  It allowed him to prepare the right junk – and accompanying sales pitch.  It also made his shop seem more reputable, as well as made him feel more important.  Gardulla the Hutt only was seen by appointment.  Watto wished he could afford that kind of isolation.
    But his schedule was empty.  He sighed and looked at Shmi.  Doubtless she would be worse company than Ani, who had begun to grow on him before those Jedi came and swindled him.  He decided to send her on some errands, if only to get her out of the shop.  He was glad, at least, he hadn’t brought up the boy’s absence yet.  It would make him look weak.  Plus, he didn’t actually care, right?  He was just a slave, and slaves could be replaced.  But he’d been a good slave.  He’d been born into it and was eager to please.  Shmi, on the other hand, knew her worth and acted it – and not a trugut more!  It would be poor business to dismiss or kill her, but it was also apparently going to be poor business to keep her.  He wondered how much he could get for a middle-aged human slave?

    “Shmi,” Watto announced.  “I’ve got a lead in Mos Eisley.  Comma and see if anyone wants to make an appointment, ah?”
    Mos Eisley was far from Mos Espa, but she’d travelled there before on similar errands.  And she liked the idea of being sent away from the shop.  She thought she could smell Anakin’s sandy scent – as if it were distinct from all the other sand.  “Alright, I can do that.”
    “Bring me two appointments and I’ll give you the day off tomorrow.  Bring me more, well, and we’ll just see how generous old Watto will be, eh?”  Shmi had made appointments for him before, two would be easy.
    Shmi nodded gratefully.  “Thank you.  I’ll head out now.”
    “Wait!”  Watto said.  He reached under the counter and pulled out a holo-projector.  Clicking it, an image of the Naboo Queen’s ship popped in and rotated around.  Something he’d swiped off the old Jedi.  “Tell them we recently acquired quite a steal, and that these parts are in peak condition.”
    Shmi took the projector, and stared at the rotating ship.  Where was Anakin sitting, and sleeping, and was he safe?  Were starships comfortable?  She imagined they were cold, because she’d heard space was cold.  She wished she had sent Anakin with a few blankets.
    “Hey, hey!”  Watto was shouting behind the ship, has mouth flapping behind the hologram.  “I said, go to the docking authority in Mos Eisley, fellah named Tremmel.  Even if he isn’t buying, he’ll know others who will need parts.  Whatever they need, we have.  Got it?”
    “Tremmel. Got it.”  Shmi said, her heart sinking.  She hated lying.  Watto gave her a few truguts for travel and waved her away.  Shmi turned off the holo-projector and left the shop just as a small alien with four eyes was coming in.  She heard Watto greet the talz as she turned down the street.  The suns were high and hot and the sky was clear for miles and miles.  She pulled her hood over her.  Days like this made her wish she were a Tusken Raider, wrapped up all cozy against the heat and wind. 

    She turned the corner to see the Jawas at their usual station on the main square, under a dusty cloth held up by upright logs.  Rontos stood tall in a pen behind them.  They would be menacing if Shmi didn’t already know rontos were the most cowardly things in the galaxy.  Large but stupid animals.  An unexpected cough could send one running, and she’d heard of some dying of fright at the sound of Tusken Raiders shouting.
    She walked up to the overhang, and one of the Jawas stood to greet her.  “I’d like to go to Mos Eisley, please.”  She said.  The Jawa yipped and turned to the others behind it.  A minute of yips and wild gesticulations later and he turned back and named a price.
    “I’m here on Watto’s regard,” Shmi said, and the Jawa moaned an understanding.  She handed over half what had been asked and the Jawa accepted the payment and dropped it into his brown robe.  He led Shmi to one of the rontos as another Jawa untied it from its post.  The ronto lowered itself to the ground, allowing she and the Jawa to climb up.  Then, with a few words, the ronto stood again, its large neck reaching tall into the sky, and they lumbered off into the wilderness.

    People often thought of Tatooine as a desert planet, but that’s incorrect.  Tatooine is full of thriving, happening communities.  The desert is just what separates those communities, but what separates can also connect.  The Jawa was following a well-worn path – or maybe it was the ronto itself.

    Shmi looked over her shoulder and saw Mos Espa disappearing into the distance.  Soon, Mos Eisley would appear in front of them.  But there would be a few minutes, she knew, when they’d be surrounded by nothing but the horizon.  Those moments had never bothered her before, but now she felt a sense of dread at the unmooring.  What if they got lost, or a storm suddenly picked up right around them.  She couldn’t help but think this might be the end for her.  Why’s that? She thought, but the answer was obvious.  Anakin was gone, and without him as an anchor she might as well disappear into the great dune sea.  Hundreds did each year.
    But they soon crested a dune which revealed to them the outline of tiny Mos Eisley.  When they arrived, Shmi slid off the side of the Ronto and bowed her head slightly to the Jawa, who gave a friendly yip in return, before turning towards the docking port, no doubt looking for the local Jawa camp.

    Entering the complex, Shmi went to a large but faded map on the durasteel wall.  She pushed her hood down so she could see.  The authority offices were in the center of the building, far from where she was.  She looked at the map for a long time, tracing the route several times with her finger in an attempt to memorize where to go.  But one part of the map was torn, so she’d have to guess a little bit.
    A short while later and she was lost again, though the corridor was busier now so she felt sure she must be going the right direction.  It was certainly better than ending up at a lonely dead-end, clearly lost and an easy target for thieves.  The merchants in their booths screamed this and that about their wares, and some people rushed to hear more, but most rushed quickly to get away.  Closer to the walls was a beggar and a street performer, who was just beginning his routine.
    She took a moment to look around for any signs, but there were none.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a hulking, hairy being coming quickly in her direction and her heart skipped a beat.  She quickly walked up to the nearest trading booth.  If she were snatched away, maybe the merchant would intervene at the prospect of lost business.
    “Aah hello, pretty missy!”  The five-eyed being said.  He had long, thin arms and was dressed in bright clothes.  His voice was eager.
    “Hello there!  I might be interested-“
    “Well of course, who wouldn’t be interested in a four jean V spiraler.”  He took out a small block, and when he clicked the bottom with his thumb a light show shot onto the ceiling, and a bit of music.  “15 truguts, but for you, I’d have to say 5.”
    “What’s it do?” She asked, quickly looking over her shoulder to see the big wookie walking away.  Stupid!  He probably didn’t even notice me, much less was going to steal from me.
    “Brightens any room you may have in your dune-mansion.”
    Despite herself, Shmi let out a laugh.  “I don’t live in a mansion.”
    “Even more important to spice things up a bit.  Every home deserves a bit of brightness.”
    Shmi pulled out her pocket to show it was empty.  “Oh, zap.  I don’t have even 5 truguts to spare," Shmi turned her pocket back in and went to leave, but then said “Do you know where the port authority offices are?”
    “Well aren’t you just a bundle of robed secrets.  No money but looking for the bosses.  I think they’re that way,” he pointed to the right.  “That’s further into the port, anyway.  Central offices, central positioning.”  He laughed mightily at his own joke.
    “Yeah,” Shmi groaned.  “Well, bye.”  She went right, passing a trash-collecting droid who was picking up the copious waste on the ground and dropping it into its domed head.

    But the trader was correct, and she soon started seeing signs for authority offices.  She found Tremmel’s door and knocked.  A very short woman opened the door. “Hello.  I’m looking for Tremmel.”
    “Yeah?” She responded throatily, and with no kindness.  She wore a spacers jumpsuit and her hair sat in a knot on top of her head.
    “Watto sent me.”  Shmi reached into her bag to retrieve the projector.  We just got some new ship parts and he said Tremmel might know some buyers.”
    “Watto,” She grunted, and spat on the dirt floor.  A silence grew between them and Shmi felt a shiver go down her own spine. “Well?”  The woman finally said, breaking the silence.
    “I’d like to show this to Tremmel,” Shmi stammered, clicking the projector to showing the sleek J-type 327 Nubian starship.
    The woman let out a gasp.  “Hey hey, well look at that.”  Her demeanor changed in an instant.  “This whole thing?”  She asked.
    “Yes,” Shmi lied.
    “And it works?  Watto didn’t find it crash-landed in the desert, already scrapped by Jawas, only fortunate enough to find the specs?”
    “It all flies.” Shmi half-lied.  “Where is Tremmel?”
    “That’s me.”  The woman said, her eyes fixed on the spinning ship.  “Wow, a real gem you’ve got there.”
    “You?”  Shmi said, surprised.
    “Yeah, me.  Listen, this is public government.  We don’t have the truguts to pay for go-betweens like you richers in Mos Espa do.  But hey, a pretty thing like this won’t last.  I’ll spread the word, and tell Watto Tremmel’ll beat his asking price if he’ll hold it for my people.  How many others of you did he send?  Man, I’d love to get my hands on that diamaclear glass, really keeps out the heat!  Well?”
    “Three,” Shmi lied again.  “Anchorhead, Mos Deema, and Mos Thonored.”
    “Thanks,” Tremmel said, and handed Shmi some dusty credits she had produced from somewhere.
    “I can spread the word myself, if you tell me where they are.”
    Tremmel cocker her head, “You know a two-cylinder jack from a seven liner link?”
    “Uhh,” Shmi stammered
    “Listen,” she said, reaching up to pat Shmi’s face, “you just let old Tremmel worry about all that.  You get home and tell Watto to hold those parts, will ya, before anyone else gets them?  Mos Eisley’s an up-and-coming place, and we need all the materials we can get, hm?”
    “I need two appointments,” Shmi said sternly.  “Can you guarantee that?”
    “I’ll get you at least three.”
    “I need names, at least.”
    “Barkey will come.  So that’s two, mine and Barkey.  Got it.”
    “Thank you,” Shmi said, taking a step back.
    “Hold on,” Tremmel disappeared back into her office and the door shut quickly, kicking up a fine spray of dust.  A few moments later the door opened again and Tremmel held up two water pouches.  “Here.  Don’t waste your time getting subgrade from when you can get that H2 straight from the source.  My own special design of vaporator, tastes sweeter!  Now get going, back to Watto.”  Shmi took the water pouches and slipped one into her pocket and took a sip from the other.  It really was delicious – absolutely better than any water she’d had before.  She took another gulp and recapped it before sliping it also into her pocket.  Ani would love it.  She turned around and headed back.

    Back in Watto’s shop, Shmi told him about Tremmel, and of the few lies she’d told on his behalf.  “Good, good,” He said, his eyes glistening in that way they did when he thought of money.  “Nowa, why don’t you head out for the night, huh?  There’s nothing else to do here.”
    “Yes,” Shmi said, bowing her head quickly and turning.  Oh wait!  “Watto, does that mean Ani’s already been sent home?”
    Watto stopped in the air, wings still fluttering to keep him afloat.  No, say nothing.  Watto recomposed himself, glad he wasn’t facing Shmi when she’d said it.  But as he resumed his route, he found himself nevertheless saying, “The boy isn’t here anymore.”
    But he didn’t even need to say it.  No sooner had the words left her mouth that Shmi remembered everything all at once.  When she heard Watto, who almost whispered the words, it seemed as an intentional jab.  He isn’t here.  But is he home?  No.

Shmi sped out of the shop and into the bright, winding walkways leading to the slave quarters.  She could feel her eyes welling up with tears, but she knew the route well enough she didn’t need to actually watch where she was going.  When she got home she ran through the kitchen and into her bedroom and threw herself onto her bed, letting her bag drop to the floor.  She lay there crying for a long time.  Finally, her thoughts were interrupted.
    “Good evening, mistress Shmi.  I have prepared dinner, since you did not and it is getting late.  I must admit it is not within my programming, since Master Anakin actually never taught me, but it is my duty to help you, such that I can.  Humans should eat every day, as I understand it.”
    Shmi rolled on her side and opened one eye to see the bare droid standing in the doorway.  The droid –  what had Ani named it? – had a point.  She’d probably feel better if she ate some pallies.
    She stood up and wiped her eyes.  “Thank you, uhhhhh.  Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
    “I am C-3P0, human-cyborgs relations.  Though, as my mistress, I suppose you could rename me, if that’s easier.”
    “No, no.” Shmi said.  “A name is a name, and it’s the one Anakin gave you.  It might be a nice reminder.  Thank you.  You said you prepared dinner?”
    “I tried, but I wasn’t sure which you liked.  I did not eat with you and Master Anakin.” C-3P0 said, taking a few shaky steps backwards and gesturing into the kitchen.

    When she walked in, Shmi was appalled at the mess.  C-3P0 had taken everything out of the pantry and poured it all into the sink.  Sunsmeal, Woopi-oats, Drafr, the entire dry-mix of brand stir-cakes which she only prepared for birthdays, and to top it all off was a spoon, fork, and knife all sticking out of the top of the dune of food.  She let out a huge laugh, as she had not in many days.  This stupid, idiot droid had wasted months worth of food rations.  Well, Jira will love this!  She mused, hoping the old woman would take pity and give her some food until the next ration cards came in.
    “I am so glad you like it,” The droid said.
    Shmi turned to C-3P0 and cocked her head to the side.  He had a lot to learn if he was ever going to serve humans.

    Fortunately, Jira’s shop was still open, and the woman enjoyed the tale.  “Droids,” she groaned.  “I am sorry, Shmi.  And about Anakin.”  Shmi had told her that story, too.
    “Thank you,” Shmi said.  “He’s always been destined to do great things.  I will see him again.”
    “It’s OK to be sad, dear.” Jira said.
    “Well, last time I cried it cost me my whole kitchen!” Shmi chuckled.  She looked down at the bag she was carrying.  “I will pay you back for this as soon as I can, I promise.”
    “No need!” Jira said.
    “I will not take charity,” Shmi snapped.
    “A gift from a friend,” Jira said firmly.
    “Well, thank you.” Shmi said again, swallowing her pride as best she could, though it caught in her throat.  “But I owe you one.”
    “Keep that droid far from me and my shop and we’ll be even, my dear.”
    Shmi smiled and nodded a farewell as she headed home.

    When she arrived, C-3P0 was still moving the food from the sink into the trash one cupful at a time.  The pile had reduced considerably, but was still, well, where no pile of food should be.  Even Gardulla isn’t so careless with her food, she thought.  Even Sarlaacs.  Only a droid could be so foolish as to not understand food.  Well, and little boys.  She remembered Anakin when he was very young refused to eat his Sunsmeal.  She even spent a little extra for some Pallies, which she’d squeeze over the bowl to sweeten the mixture.  She still had to watch him like a Tathawk, because the minute she turned around he’d throw his bowl on the ground, as if food was free.  Well, if she taught the irascible Anakin to eat his sunsmeal, she was sure she could teach C-3P0 how to cook.

    It wasn’t easy.  Well, stars aren’t made in a day, either.  The next morning she told him to read the now-empty containers while she was gone.  Watto had refused to give her the day off as promised until he heard from his new customers.  “Each will have a set of instructions on how to make them, See-Three.  Memorize them.  That’s the first step to preparing a meal – knowing how to do it.  After you do that, well, after that just stand around, or sit.  Do droids like to sit?”
    “I have never considered it,” Threepio said.
    “Well, sit or stand and then wait.  I don’t think I can take any more of your initiative.”
    “Yes, Mistress Shmi.”

    It didn’t have the same ring as “mom,” but she liked having something of a title, someone who uniquely answered to her.  When she came home, C-3P0 was standing in the kitchen.
    “I have fulfilled your requests.”
    “Prove it.” Shmi said, taking out the bag she had bought from Jira the night before.  She was in a particular good mood, having been sent again out of the shop to make appointments for Watto.  When she returned, Watto had heard from Tremmel and Sharkey, as well as a few others, and had made good on his promise to give her the next day off.  “Here’s a box of Pert-il and some Wopi-oats.  Tell me, how do you make these?”
    C-3P0’s voice sounded somehow more robotic than before.  He was clearly reciting.  “Pour the Wopi-oats into a bowl and add one measure of water.  Prepared over a low heat for 10 minutes.” A pause, then he said, “Pert-il are to be combined with water and stirred until the mixture thickens.  Heat quickly in the roto-oven for 5 minutes, and season to taste.  Do not feed to pets.”
    Shmi nodded her head.  “Good.  Good.  There might be some hope for you after all, Threepio.”  She walked by C-3P0 and towards the appliances.  “Now come here.  You’re going to cook us some dinner, and I am going to watch.  Ask any questions you have.  And then next time you want to make dinner, you’ll actually know how to do it on your own.”
    Shmi showed C-3P0 where the pots were in the lower cupboards, though the droid wasn’t able to bend enough to get them himself.  But he was able to turn the dials and press the buttons and his internal timer appeared to be flawless.  Mixing was difficult – he didn’t have the grip necessary.  Shmi quickly realized that while C-3P0 may be of use around the house he’d be far from independent.  Stars weren’t made in a day, she reminded herself.  Maybe he just needed practice.

    An hour later, he said “Done!” and Shmi quickly took the Wopi-oats off the stove and poured them into a bowl lined with Pert-il.  The foamy Pert-il caught the oats softly as they fell, and she knew from the smell the flavors were mixing nicely.  She brought the bowl to the table and turned to call for…. Oh that’s right.  Her enthusiasm for tomorrow’s day off evaporated, and the air even seemed colder as she breathed it in.
    She looked over at C-3P0, who was still standing near the stove.  “Come join me,” Shmi said.
    “Mistess Shmi, surely you know that droids do not need to eat.”
    Shmi rolled her eyes and chuckled.  “And surely you know humans don’t like to be lonely.  Just stay by the table, won’t you?”
    He did, and Shmi began talking about her day.  How Watto had sent her to Anchorhead to again sell a ship he didn’t have.  Interest was even higher than yesterday, and she was paid quite a pretty sum to promise to ask Watto to hold this or that part.  She was beginning to worry what Watto would do when everybody finally arrived and found out they had been duped.  She had already decided to not be present when they came.  There were enough errands to be done that she could disappear whenever she wanted:  Refilling cleaning oils, taking out the waste, visiting the spaceport for easy marks – though perhaps Watto had soured on outlanders since last time.  Truth was Shmi didn’t have much sympathy for them either.  They came to Tatooine, took what they needed, and left.  Few people came to lay down roots or add to the community.  Well, if that was their way then she might as well try to get some of their business.  She didn’t like leading bantha to slaughter, but off-world bantha were different.  Even the Jedi and his maid had come and left.  And if one couldn’t count on the Jedi to help, who could one count on?
    Anakin.  He’d become a special Jedi, she knew.  Something far more powerful.  He’d come to Tatooine, and all the other planets with injustice, and wipe it out.  Bring peace and order to the galaxy – finally.  Anakin would grow up to be something great.  She just had to wait.
    “And how long do you expect until Master Anakin becomes a Jedi?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” Shmi said.  “It takes a long time to become a Jedi, I believe.  But Anakin is a quick learner.  Maybe it won’t take so long for him.”
    It was late, so Shmi decided to do the dishes, listen to some cronotapes outside, and go to sleep.

    Shmi woke up the next morning feeling very antsy.  She decided to clean the house, and see what C-3P0 could do in that regard, as well.  He was no better than at cooking, especially as so much of cleaning involved bending.
    When she opened one of the drawers to organize its contents she was surprised to find it full of money.  A pile of paper and sandstone truguts.  It was certainly more than she’d ever seen before.  Before…
    Look at all the money we got, Mom!  She heard his excited voice saying.  They had sold the podracer and given the money to her.  She’d quickly hid the money away, then the Jedi had said Anakin was free and he left, and it all happened so fast that she’d forgotten.  She wasn’t used to having drawers full of money.
    She took it out counted it.  30,000 truguts.  Quite a heft sum!  But what in the galaxy would she do with it?  Even if she could buy her freedom, what would she do?  How expensive was it to go to Couruscant?  How could she find Ani there.  Would Watto even accept the buy-out?  Just as likely he’d claim the money was his and that she’d stolen it, and then what?
    No, that wouldn’t do.  So then what?  Shmi remembered Jira.  She could figure out what to do with the rest of the money later.  She had a debt to settle.

    A few days later, there came a knock on her door.  When Shmi opened the door, a familiar voice said, “Hello Miss Skywalker.  Can Anakin come out and play?”
    “Oh, Kitster,” She said, crouching down to the boy’s level.  He was a friend of her son’s. “Oh, Kitster.”  She said again, grappling with what to say.  “Come inside, won’t you.”
    “Sure!”  Kitster replied enthusiastically.  He came in and sat on the stool Shmi pulled out for him.  She sat on one next to him.
    “Kitster,” She said slowly.  “Anakin is gone.”  She said, and her voice broke as she said it.  “He’s left.”
    Shmi prepared herself for the tears and the shouting.  They had been close friends for a long time.  Kitster had even been at the Podrace with them all last week, the only one of his friends to come cheer for him.  And now Anakin was gone, vanished, and hadn’t even said good-bye.  It had been a rotten thing to do, now that she considered it.  That Jedi sure had been in a rush to take him away.
    Kitster tilted his head slightly.  “OK, so when will he be back?”
    Shmi laughed and wiped her eyes.  What a moment of innocence.  “That man, the Jedi, you remember him?  Anakin left with him.  With my permission, of course.  Ani wanted to go, too.  He’s gone to be a Jedi, to save the Galaxy.”
    “But families are supposed to stay together.” Kitster said firmly
    Shmi laughed again.  What a bright spot this boy was!  “Yes, but we must also let our loved ones pursue their dreams.  Anakin had an opportunity to leave.  I had to stay.”
    “Hmmmmmm,” Kitster said, long and deliberate.  Shmi looked into his brown eyes and tried to figure out what he was thinking.  She’d lost a friend, Ata, long ago.  When she was a child, the two would play together in the evenings.  But one day her family had been sold and they’d been sent away.  The only farewell they got was screaming at each other across the street as her whole family was pushed into a transport ship.  Was it better, maybe, to have Anakin just disappear?

    “I think I need to go.” Kitster said finally.  Shmi felt sadder at that than she expected to.  Having a child, any child, in her house was better than none.  He got off the stool and went to the door.  He turned around as he opened it.  “Bye, Miss Skywalker.”  He paused again, then said, voice cracking and tears now streaming down his face, “It was nice seeing you.”  She couldn’t help but smile as she went to him, crouched, and scooped him up in her arms.
    “I know, I know,” she said, holding him.  It felt good to hold someone small and warm.  He gripped her tightly, and started blubbering, mostly repeating where and why and then dissolving again into tears.  After several minutes, his grip on her back loosened, and she let go.  He dropped to the floor and wiped his eyes.  “Would you like some tea?” Shmi asked.  Kitster nodded, eyes averted.  “Threepio!”  Shmi shouted over her shoulder.  “Have you ever had droid tea?”  Shmi asked, perking up her voice.
    Kitster shook his head. “What’s that?”
    “That’s tea made by a droid.”
    “Yes, mistress Shmi.” Threepio said, coming up behind them.  “Oh, and hello Kitster.”  Kitster waved lazily.
    “Threepio, brew us each a cup of mint-chop leaf tea.  And squeeze some Pallie into Kitster’s.  He’s had a hard day.”
    “Yes, mistress Shmi,” Threepio said, and he went to the kitchen.
    Shmi leaned in closer to Kitster, “He’s not very good at making tea, but tell him it’s good anyway, hm?  Make him feel good.”
    Kitster chuckled a little and stood up.  “My sister isn’t good at making tea, either.  We do the same thing.”
    “Well, let’s find out who’s better, your sister or a droid!”
    Shmi pulled out a stool for Kitster again, and she took a seat next to him.
    “If it’s my sister, then droid tea might just kill us!”
    Shmi laughed and hushed him again.  “You mustn’t, you mustn’t.  He’s right there!”
    Kitster covered his mouth and giggled.  Then they sat in pleasant silence until the tea was served.  The tea was actually quite good.  C3PO was getting better.

    Some time later, Shmi glanced outside and gasped when saw the suns were setting. “You’d better get home, I’m sure your mother must be worried.”
    “Oh, yes,” Kitster said, standing and brushing crumbs from his tunic.
    “It was so nice having you visit,” Shmi said, walking him towards the door.  “I hope you will come again.”
    “I will!”  Kitster said.  “And maybe one day you can come to my place, and try my sister’s tea?  You’ll see, it’s terrible,” he laughed.
    “We’ll see,” Shmi said, and watched as he walked out the door.  Visiting a whole family sounded a bit beyond what she could handle.  Better to host little Kitster, just him, and pretend for a short while her son was still home.  That she could handle.

    She turned around and laughed at what she saw.  Kitster had left his teacup on the table, and crumbs were all over the floor where he had been sitting.  All little boys really are the same, she thought as she bent down to clean it up.

    Later that week, Kitster came back.  He was carrying two full skinbags, which drooped close to the ground.  “Hello, Miss Skywalker.  Momma told me to bring you this food.  She says it’s part of our tradition.”
    Shmi pressed her hands together at her chin and felt a tingle in her eyes.  “Thank you, Kitster, that’s so sweet.  Come in, come in.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”  She took the bags from him and put them on the table and carefully emptied them.
    “Oh, and Momma said that I should tell you she’s sorry they took Anakin.”  His voice cracked when he said it, and a moment later he added, “I’m sorry, too, you know.”
    “Oh, Kitster.  That’s not what happened.  Maybe I explained it wrong.  Anakin left with my permission.  He is to become a Jedi.  But he will come back, when he can.  We will see each other again.”  She quickly added, “We will all see each other again.”
    Kitster looked up from his stool and smiled sadly.  “I hope so.  I miss him.”
    “I miss him, too.”  Shmi agreed, and put a firm hand on Kitster’s shoulder as she organized the food he had brought over with the other.  Scanning the food with her eyes she wasn’t able to recognize what they were.  She couldn’t read the writing on them either.  “Umm, Kitster.  Can you help me out?  What is it you brought me?”
    “Food.  My mother made it.”  Kitster said simply.
    “No, no,” Shmi said lightly.  “I mean, what is it.  I mean, how about this.  Are you hungry, because I sure am!  So what’s this?”  She pulled a bowl with a colorful knitted wrapping and pointed to the writing on it.
    Kitster looked at it closely.  “Haztam soup.”  He looked up at Shmi.  “It’s good!”
    “What’s Haztam?”  She asked.
    “Uhh, it’s bread but, like, rolled up.  Momma makes it when we’re sick.”
    “Then let’s try it out, shall we?  Threepio!”  C3P0 ambled out of Anakin’s room.
    “Yes, Mistress Shmi?”
    “Watch this,” Shmi said to Kitster, then to the droid, “Please put this in the roto for, say, two minutes.  Then pour it out into two of the bowls and serve it to us.”
    “At once,” Threepio said, picking up the bowl and heading toward the kitchen.
    The two of them watched in silence as Threepio flawlessly heated up the soup, retrieved two bowls, used a ladle to serve the hot soup into the bowls, and placed it in front of them.
    “Wow,” Kitster said, staring at Threepio as he walked back to the kitchen.
    Shmi took a big sniff of the soup.  “Smells delicious!  Is that dusty ginger?”
    Kitster took a sniff of his soup and said, “Is it?  I don’t know.  But it smells right – so maybe?”
    Shmi brought a spoonful up to her mouth and took in the flavors.  “There’s a lot going on here.  I like it!”
    Kitster raised his head to see into Shmi’s bowl.  “That’s Haztam!”  He said, pointing to two sandy-colored blobs.  “Watch this.”  Kitster put his spoon into the bowl and cut one of the balls in half with it.  “So, you get one half under your spoon and press it down.  When it pops up again, scoop it up with some soup and put it all in your mouth.  I like to suck it, but you can chew it or just squish it with your tongue.”
    Shmi tried it.  The half-ball wasn’t very cooperative, but she got it.  She brought it to her mouth and put it in.  She tried to suck the blob as Kitster had said, but it was hard with so much soup in her mouth, so she bit into it.  Her mouth burst with flavors she had never even imagined.  “Wow!”  Was all she managed to say after swallowing.
    A few minutes later, their bowls were empty.  Kitster leaned onto the table, and Shmi felt equally full.  The two traded satisfied groans.  Threepio came by to get the dishes.  “In my experience, when humans make these sort of sounds, they ought to lie down.”
    “Then we ought to widen your experience,” Shmi said.  “These are the sounds of absolute contentment.  A full meal.  Soup doesn’t usually hit me like that, but that Haztam really fills you up, doesn’t it?  I feel like I’ve had a feast!”
    Kitster grunted an agreement.

    “Alright,” Shmi said, after a few more minutes.  She stood up.  “You should probably head home.  But thank you for the food.  Oh!  Before you leave, actually, can you tell me what these other foods are?  I still can’t read the labels.”
    Kitster showed her another bowl of Haztam soup, a layered angsal etkal, and a braised Womp-rat Steak.  Shmi had heard of none of them except the steak, but Kitster assured her they were all delicious.  His mother had clearly put a lot of work into this, and Shmi felt guilty accepting it for free.  She went into her room and into the buried drawer, but then she stopped.  Giving a little boy so much money?  Surely his mother would be suspicious when he said he’d been given it by a woman she’d never met.  And what if someone noticed and stole it from him?  No, not a good idea.  She came out empty-handed.
    “Kitster, when you get home please ask your mother to come by and see me when she can.  Nothing urgent – but I’d like to thank her in person for this.”
    “Okay.  Actually, want to come over for dinner?  I’m sure Momma won’t mind.”
    “No, thank you,” Shmi said, laughing to hide her discomfort.  “I don’t want to impose.”
    “Alright,” Kitster said, picking up the two empty skin bags.  He pulled one over his head.  “Look at me!”  He started shouting and grunting and hopping from one foot to the next.  He pulled the bag up to see her reaction, announcing, “I’m a Tusken Raider!”
    “You certainly are fierce,” Shmi said smiling.  Anakin used to do the same thing.  Little boys really are all the same, she thought wistfully.  Her eyes began to water.
    “Oh, don’t worry, Miss Skywalker.  I won’t really hurt you.”
    “I know,” She said, blinking her eyes and wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I just, well, you know.”
    “Adult stuff?” Kitster asked.
    “Maybe?” Shmi eyed him tentatively, not sure what he meant.
    “Adult stuff seems hard.  It always makes my parents cry or get angry.  When I’m an adult, I’ll do whatever I can to make being an adult easier for everyone.”
    “That is a noble mission.”  A silence fell between them.  “I hope you will come back again.  And don’t forget to have your mother come.”
    Kitster looked around.  “I miss Anakin, but you’re also fun to spend time with.  Miss Skywalker, can adults and kids be friends?”
    “Anyone can be friends with anyone,” She responded, not entirely sure what she meant by that, or if she really believed it.  But she wanted to be Kitster’s friend, too.  Well, friend wasn’t going to be the right word.  She knew she wanted more and that she couldn’t have it.  But she was heartened to hear him ask to be friends and didn’t want to discourage him.
    “Alright,” Kitster said.  “Then I will see you again.”
    “I look forward to it,” Shmi said, and watched him go outside.

    A few days later, another knock came on Shmi’s door.
    “Who is it?”  Shmi called from her chair.
    “Mrs. Dlogerg – Kitty’s mother.”
    Shmi wrinkled her forehead at the name.  It didn’t ring a bell.  But she’d gotten used to knowing people through Anakin’s gregariousness.  Maybe this was another parent just finding out what had happened and coming to confirm their child wasn’t just telling lies.
    Shmi opened the door to see a large woman with unnaturally pale skin wearing a patterned blouse.  Extending beyond her sleeves and the bottom of her outfit was what looked like black tights.  Her hair was wrapped tightly in colorful fabric.  Shmi had never seen anyone dressed like her before.

    “Hello, Miss Skywalker.  Shee, is it?  Pleasure to meet you, my name is Mairmi.  Kitty says you wanted to see me, and I’ve wanted to for a long time anyway, even before this happened.  Your son was giving Kitty a lot of ideas I’m not sure I agreed with.  But what’s done is done, and however I thought of him I can put aside and realize how awful you must be feeling, no matter how Kit insists you say you allowed him to leave.  It’s hot out here – won’t you invite me in?”
    Shmi had been standing in a stupor at the barrage of words that had come.  She shook her head to rouse herself.
    “Oh, yes!  And it’s Shmi.  Mairmi, you said?  Very nice to meet you.  Won’t you come in.”  She stepped back and motioned to the stools at the table.  “You said Kitty?  Do you mean Kitster.”
    “Yes!”  Mairmi said sitting down.  “Oh I sometimes forget that’s just our name for him.  But it fits him, he’s a very sweet boy, and dutiful.”
    “I have much appreciated his visits.”
    “So then it’s really true?”
    “Yes,” Shmi said, and launched into her familiar speech about what happened.  But Mairmi interrupted her quite early on.
    “Feh,” she said with a wave of her hand.  “Jedi!  What do they know.  Go on.”
    Shmi continued, but soon was interrupted again.
    “Midi-what?  I swear, they keep coming up with new terms.  Sometimes I think they make them just to confuse us.  Our heads can only hold so many words at once, you know.”
    Shmi was getting annoyed at this and cut the story down considerably.  She had been telling it for a while and had continued telling it only when others wanted to hear it, but it didn’t seem like this woman really wanted to listen.  When she was done, Mairmi nodded her head.

    “Mind tricks,” she said, putting her pale finger to her head.  “Those Jedi used one of their mind tricks.  Oh, I don’t blame you, Shmi, but why else would any mother just let her son leave?”
    “It wasn’t a mind trick,” Shmi said firmly.  “I know what it sounds like, but Anakin’s going to become a Jedi.  He’s going to change the galaxy.  And he will return to me.”
    “Alright,” Mairmi said, her tone shifting.  “Alright, alright.  Sorry I questioned it.  I wasn’t there, you know.  I mean, obviously.”  Mairmi’s voice trailed off and looked around.  Shmi stood to get the money she had intended to give her.  Even though she found this woman very annoying, it was still a useful way to get rid of the money.  She’d been giving money to the street performers and beggars she ran across on the errands Watto sent her on, or when she just went to Mos Espa center, but it had hardly made a dent in the total.
    “I must admire your housekeeping,” Mairmi said.  “How do you keep it all so tidy?  How many children are left?”
    “It’s just me,” Shmi said.
    “And your husband,” Mairmi said matter-of-factly.
    “Just me.”  Shmi repeated.
    Mairmi looked at Shmi, and must have seen the annoyance in her eyes.
    “I apologize again.  Here I am being as rude as an out-lander.  But it isn’t good for one to be alone, so our people say.  We’re having a dinner celebration in a few weeks.  Achpes festival.  We eat and dance and imagine a time without slavery.  You should come!  And uncle Bamram will be there, and Shamlel. A bit of male companionship might be just the thing you need.”
    “I’ve done quite well without,” Shmi said definitively.
    “So how much better could you do with?  And even if not that, being with people is healthy, Shmi.  Don’t you agree it’s good for the gestalt.”
    “The what?”
    “Gestalt.  Ummmm, your being.  That’s what our people call it.  Food and shelter is all well and good, but that’s not what really sustains us.  Even if you don’t believe that, it’s good to celebrate being free for a day, even if you aren’t.”
    Shmi didn’t know how to respond to that.  She’d rarely celebrated any holiday, except for her and Anakin’s birthday.  But at least those were real events.  Why celebrate freedom if you weren’t really free?  Mairmi took her silence as consideration.
    “So you’ll think about it!  See, Shmi?  I’ll get you yet.  First you say no, now you consider it.  Next thing I’ll have to push you out of my house!”  The woman laughed, stood, and put her hand on Shmi’s shoulder as she recovered.  Shmi stood perfectly still until she retracted her hand.  She had had just about enough of this woman.  Still she reminded herself.  She shouldn’t be rude.  That would be giving into her way.
    “Mairmi, it’s getting late.”
    “Is it?”  Mairmi cut in, glancing outside, which was very bright with noonday sun.
    “I have some errands to run,” Shmi said, and then put up her hand when Mairmi looked about to interrupt, “And I have something to give you before I forget.”  She went into her room and grabbed a wad of credits.  The more she gave, the less likely Mairim would insist on staying, she figured.  She came back out with two handfuls.
    “I’m sure this is too much, but in return of the food you gave me.  You have more need for money than I do.”
    Mairmi’s eyes widened when she saw what Shmi was handing her.  “Oh my dear – but are you sure?”
    “The Jedi sold Anakin’s pod and they gave the money to me before they left.  A way to ensure I’d be taken care of.  And like I said, I won’t be a charity case.”
    “But this is truly too much,” Mairim said.
    “Then make more, and send it with Kitster when he comes.  Make more until you feel the balance is paid.”

    Mairmi considered the proposition.  “Well, we always have leftovers anyway.  And you say you’re sure, Shmi?  This is a lot of money, and surely not all you have.  Why not buy yourself off?”

    “And go where?”  Shmi asked.  “Besides, I don’t think Watto would take kindly to knowing I have all this money.”
    “True enough.  Very well.  We must do what we can with what we have.”  She looked at the money again, folded it tightly and thrust it into one of the black sleeves.  “I hope to see you at our house for Achpes.  Kitty can tell you more, and when.  Until then,” Mairim grabbed Shmi by the shoulders and quickly kissed her on both cheeks.  “Blessings to you.  Blessings on your son.  I do wish him all the well, even if the Jedi, well,” She rolled her eyes.  “Well, maybe I’m wrong about them.”

    Shmi waved her off and shut the door behind her when she left.  When she was alone, she let out an enormous sigh.  She heard some familiar mechanical noises behind her.  “Mistress Shmi, is there anything I can do to help?”

    “Not unless you can teach that woman some manners,” she exclaimed, feeling herself loosen as she chuckled in relief.
    “I don’t believe that’s within my programming capacity,” Threepio said plainly.
    “Ah, worth a try.” Shmi said, smiling with exhaustion.  “In that case, some Wisp tea, and a slice of pallie, please.

***

    It was his day off so Kitster walked to the Skywalker home.  Kitster knew during his great-grandparents time slaves never got any days off – and they always took the opportunity to remind him.  That had changed when the Hutt’s took over.  Slaves lived longer if one day a week off to rest.  Not everyone had the last day of the week off but Kitster was just a goods hawker.  No one would be at the market today anyway.
    If he had come back, Anakin would not have recognized who Kitster had grown into.  He still had a full head of black hair, yes, but his eyes were dimmer and has voice coarse from shouting at the market, making profits he would never see a trugut of.  The only real joy in his life were his nieces and nephews by his older siblings.  But that joy was always diminished by the knowledge that they, too, would live their lives as slaves.  At times he wished for his freedom, or for theirs, but it was only a useless wish.

    He walked by Jira’s corner and nodded in respect.  The old woman has been dead for some years, but nobody had taken over her spot, except for a few dust spider and green scorpions who regularly battled for dominion.
    Miss Skywalker’s home came into view at the next alley.  Kitster put his hand into his skin bag to double check it.  Two Pallies, two fresh cakes, and a container of water.  If Anakin had come back, he would have a lot to answer for.  Kitster still hadn’t forgiven him for abandoning his mother the way that he had.  At the time, he had been jealous, but that was through the eyes of an irrepressible child.  Duty had meant little to him then, not like now.  Anakin hadn’t considered the ramifications of his leaving.  Kitster would forgive him, but not before Anakin understood and acknowledged the pain his flight had caused.
    Kitster knocked on the door.  “Hello, Miss Skywalker!  I’m here!”  He was met only with silence, which was unusual.  Maybe she had gone out, or maybe she had taken a nap.  She wouldn’t have forgotten, Kitster knew that.  Miss Skywalker had all the sense of duty her son had lacked.  He knocked again.  Still nothing.  He went to the window and looked in.  To his surprise, the interior had been stripped barren.  The table was uncovered, the cupboards open and bare.  The cakes were crushed under the water container as the skin bag fell to the ground.  The pallies rolled out.
    “Excuse me,” a mechanical voice said, but it wasn’t as friendly as Threepio.
    “Yes?” Kitster said, turning around.
    “This is the property of Watto.  Please do not make a mess.”
    “What about Miss Skywalker?”  Kitster asked, though he already dreaded the answer.
    “The slave designated 289TR00 has already been sold earlier this week.  Her belongings have been taken or confiscated.”
    “Where is she?”
    “The slave designated 289TR00 has been sent to their new master.”
    “And who is that?”
    The droid paused and its eyes dimmed momentarily.  “What is your authorization?”
    “Where is she!!”  Kitster shouted, his eyes beginning to feel hot.
    “The slave designated 289TR00 no longer lives here.  If you do not have authorization to find her or be here, please leave the premises immediately, as it is being prepared for the next slave.”  The droid quickly took a few steps back and a light protruded from its orange skull, which began flashing.  A loud alarm also started wailing.
    Kitster dropped to his knees to gather what had fallen out of the bag.  “Thief!”  The droid cried shrilly, but did nothing to stop him.  Kitster stood up, turned around, and ran away with his bag thudding on his side as he ran.  And that was that; He never saw any Skywalker again.

    Shmi sat uncomfortably in the dark interior of the sandcrawler.  Whoever had bought her sure was cheap, to contract with Jawas and not come him or herself.  They didn’t even get her a seat on the usual transports.  She was chained to the wall and the chain was short.  Her leg was stretched out to guard her bags from any Jawa hoping to scavenge any of her belongings.  She already had had to ward a few off when she was brought onboard.
    “Oh, dear,” C-3P0 said as the sandcrawler suddenly lurched to a stop.  That was the other thing.  Her new owner hadn’t just contracted a sandcrawler to take her to Mos Eisley, they had contracted her space on a sandcrawler.  The Jawas had their own schedule, and a trip that should have taken only a few hours was destined to take a whole suns-cycle, at least.  Even in the dark those Jawas would find any bit of scrap metal out in the desert.

    Shmi didn’t know a thing about who had bought her, or why.  Probably one of the big construction contractors.  Mos Eisley’s development had taken off in the last few years, with dozens of new buildings being put up.  Each of the last times she visited, it a whole new neighborhood had been added.  She’d mentioned as much to Watto once, who moaned that spending money was as good as wasting it.  That didn’t make much sense to Shmi – why else have money? – but Corpeg was quick to agree.  Corpeg had been really getting on her nerves lately.
    Purchased several years earlier, Corpeg was about the age Anakin would have been and at first she was overjoyed by his presence.  But he didn’t return her affection, not like Kitster had.  Oh, Kitster.  She hoped he would find the note she wrote for him on the table before she left, as well as the rest of the pod money in the drawer.  She would have sent it to his home but didn’t know where it was.  She hadn’t been invited over since that first year, and didn’t want to invite herself over.  She longed for company, and Corpeg didn’t.  He soon resented her presence and seemed to go out of his way to annoy her.  Children.
    But it still came as an unpleasant shock when Watto told her she had been sold, and would be picked up later that day.  The last time she’d been sold Gardulla had put her on the block, with Anakin in her arms, as buyers made their bids going higher and higher, until – as her rotten luck would have it – Watto had won her.  She was glad to avoid a repeat of that humiliation, but it was incredibly unusual for a slave to be sold without at least an inspection of some sort.  Whoever bought her clearly just needed warm bodies, so construction contractors made sense.  Unless it was someone who’d seen her in Mos Eisley.

    The sandcrawler started back up.  She thought again of Anakin.  How would he find her now?  How long would she survive hauling heavy equipment under the hot sun?  She closed her eyes and focused until she could see his face.  She tried to imagine how it would have grown in this time.  His face would have lost that plumpness of children.  His hair would have been longer, in the Jedi way.  But his eyes.  Those never change.  She closed her eyes and pictured looking into his.  Anakin.  Come to Mos Eisley.  Your mother will be there.  She may not have much time left, but she will wait for you forever.  I love you.  She repeated this several times.
    Would Anakin hear her message, she wondered?  Could she, through the strength of love, use the Force?  It was certainly worth a try.  It was true, in any event.  No matter what happened, Shmi knew she would hang on until she could see her son again.  He had told her they would see each other again.  She would not let him down.
    The sandcrawler rattled on.

Copyright ©️ 2021 Maslow Stories.

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I consider this story still a draft. I edit it occasionally. If you have any feedback for me, I'd love to hear it! Email me at armaslow@gmail.com. Please put "Star Wars Stories" in the subject line. Thank you!