When You Come Home

-34-

Tatooine was hot. It was always hot. It was hot and dry and sandy. So sandy. It always had been, though. There had always been acres of creamy-white granules spreading as far as the horizon. Wiggling heat waves rose from the oozing tarmac, and a dusty wind drove sand and pieces of rubbish through the streets. The houses were simple and functional, lacking embellishment and sometimes necessities — like running water — but such deprivations were mostly in the poorest part. Anakin's part. He walked through the familiar avenues and past the same places in muted horror, his mouth shut tight and eyes widened. He had been so young, and yet he remembered so much. The insufferable heat. The miserable scowls from the people. The kitchen where his mom had worked, where the sounds of sizzling meat and clanging dishes were entrapped forever. He couldn't keep his eyes off the grungy building as they marched past.

"Everything okay?" a confused, but concerned, Boil asked from beside him.

Anakin nodded vacantly, his gaze still fixed to the restaurant.

"Okay ... because you don't look okay," Boil decided. "What's wrong?" He checked to see what Anakin was looking at. "You hungry? Don't worry, buddy, we'll eat soon. We've just got to check in with whoever's managing this country, then we can grab a bite to eat. We could even go there, if you wanted," he added happily, nudging Anakin's arm.

Anakin didn't have the words to say no. He didn't have any words at all, in fact. He had nothing to say as they entered the air-conditioned building where sat the governor — Ziro Hutt, a hugely obese man with a whiny voice and a bizarre purplish tint to his white skin. He had no words as Cody introduced their troop, him particularly as captain, and laid out their immediate plans to said governor: to survey the land today and to protect tomorrow. He had no words as they left again, heading for their allocated quarters: a fine square of apartments, decked out with cooling, a tangle of delicate indoor plants, a private kitchen, and a water fountain in the centre. He had no words as the boys laughed and cooed, overexcited by their treatment as royalty and rescuers, dividing up bunks and separate rooms. He had no thoughts, even, except that he didn't deserve this. If they found out who he was, an imposter and a fraud, they would throw him out at once and cast him back to that kitchen he had devoted hours of his life to. They would laugh at him and mock, and they would push him back into the dust. They would scorn him for ever deigning to be more than just a pauper's son and an unemployed kitchen hand.

Aside from the faint ringing in his ears and that suffocating imposter syndrome, the only other coherency in his mind was anger. Righteous anger at how he was treated like more than those who had worked to put him in this beautiful place. Anger at the knowledge that others felt they had to look up to him. No, he was equal to the bricklayers that had created this spacious, mosaicked foyer, equal to the glassblowers who had captured the sunlight but shut out the warmth, equal to the chefs who laboured in the boiling kitchen, and especially equal to the crowd that gathered outside, some peering in wonder and some in disgust. He was the same as them, and nothing could change that, real or imagined, present or past. He was one of them.

"What do you say, Anakin?" He was jerked back to reality by a bump to his shoulder and a friendly question from Boil.

"Sure," he responded before his brain comprehended why. "What are we doing?"

Boil laughed. "Something's up with you. We're having dinner at that restaurant you spotted on the way in. Apparently, it's just the kitchen that looks grungy: it's a four-star restaurant! We're dining well tonight, boys!" he added with a whoop of delight that spread like wildfire through the exhausted troops.

But Anakin had no breath to join in. He had used up all his words, and now his breath had been stolen from him, too. He couldn't go there. He couldn't. Never again. Especially not after his mom had died. He never even wanted to remember the place, much less dine at it. Not when he knew what went on behind the golden chandeliers and plush red carpet. Not when he had experienced it.