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There’s a handmade wooden sign: “Clan Mudhorn”. Melanie checks her job sheet. Yes, this is the correct address. As she gets out of the air-conditioned vehicle the heat strikes her like a blow.
She looks at the house, which is hardly more than a small concrete shack. Reluctantly she has to concede that the complainant has a valid argument. Usually these people are nutjobs who can’t or won’t understand that babies cry and that non-traditional families can be perfectly successful, but at first glance the environment does seem to be less than ideal.
The building stands alone on the edge of town. It’s a single-storey dwelling. There’s a central doorway with a window on each side; probably all one room, if she’s any judge. She’s seen many of these cabins. This one is typical – there’s a seat in front shaded by a makeshift drape which might have been a curtain or cloak at some point in the past and what looks like an old tyre propped by the front door. There’s no garden; just a scruffy apology for a pond which looks to be a couple of inches deep at most. Of course, she reminds herself, keeping an open water pond in these desert conditions does demand commitment. Or obsession. It argues to a level of concern for the place at least. And the N-1 Starfighter parked nearby is certainly clean and shiny.
To her shock she sees that a tiny child is playing alone right next to the pond. She hurries over.
“Hey, sweetie, are you on your own? Where’s your dad?”
The small green infant looks at her with big dark eyes. “Patu?”
Melanie notes that it’s wearing clothes that are too warm for this temperature. She is sweating already in her work outfit even though she’s barely stepped outside for two minutes.
“Don’t touch him.”
A tall metal-clad individual appears from the house.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” Melanie definitely doesn’t want to tangle with this person, who looks quite intimidating. She shows him her identification. “You are …” (she checks the job sheet) “Din Djarin? And this cutie would be … “Din Grogu? Your son?” Because this child is clearly no blood relative.
“Adopted. He is Mandalorian. I have the papers.” The Mandalorian is practically growling. Though that could be his normal voice: hard to tell when he’s speaking through a helmet visor.
“I don’t suppose you could take off the helmet so I can hear you better?”
“No.”
“No, all right. I see.” She isn’t about to argue, though now she’s wondering how Mandalorians brush their teeth. “Could we maybe go inside?”
“Or we could sit here on the bench.”
Immediately she wonders what he’s hiding. Her occupation makes her cynical, she reflects.
“Grogu! Put that down and come here.”
The child babbles a bit but eventually leaves the pond and (oh goodness) the poor frog. The Mandalorian scoops him up.
Melanie sits hesitantly on the bench, though it seems clean enough. She takes refuge in formality.
“Din Djarin, I must inform you that there have been concerns expressed about your living situation. How old is the child?”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty.” She makes a note and puts an exclamation point after it. First red flag.
“He is from a long-lived race.”
That … might be true, though it seems unlikely the young of any species would remain an infant for fifty years.
“And your date and place of birth?”
“How is that relevant?”
“Just a formality, sir.” She’s prepared to back off on this if it seems to make him angrier, but his reply could be an indicator for his general mental health.
“I cannot give you an exact date in Nevarran reckoning, but it would be … around 40 years ago. In Aq Vetina.”
“Not Mandalore.”
“Again, I fail to see how this can possibly be relevant.”
“True. I apologise. That’s fine, sir.”
“Greef Karga gave us this house.” This is the first time he’s spoken voluntarily. It’s a good sign.
“That would be after the pirate siege,” she says, checking her information.
“Yes. It was a reward.” Clearly he’s trying to make a point about Karga’s favour, but it won’t cut any ice with Melanie. She has a job to do, and sometimes it isn’t pleasant.
“I’m afraid I do need to see the house, Din Djarin. I have to be sure the living and sleeping accommodations are suitable for a young child. You understand.”
“It’s that old bastard down the road, isn’t it. I will … Nothing. I will not harm him. I will take Grogu to visit and show him that we are not bad for the neighbourhood.”
“I’m sure he’ll love to meet Grogu.” The child is certainly cute, if you can get past the frog thing. “Still …”
The Mandalorian stands. He sighs. “You know what I do for a living.”
“Um …” she checks her jobsheet. “You’re an independent contractor for the New Republic.” She narrows her eyes. “Independent contractor” is extremely vague, possibly code for something else entirely. She makes a mental note to ask about alternative childcare arrangements.
“So I have a lot of weapons.”
Ah, thinks Melanie. Assassin, bounty-hunter, spy, so many possibilities.
“And many of them have to be kept clean and sharp. Which is what I was doing when you arrived. I make sure Grogu is nowhere near when I’m doing that.”
He leads Melanie into the cabin. There is a large central worktable completely covered with fearsome-looking weapons.
Din Djarin looks at her. “Normally they’re locked away.” He shows her his weapons cabinet, which is terrifying, but has serious locks. She is relieved to note that he’s holding Grogu quite firmly.
To distract herself from the deadly arsenal, she looks around the room. “And where does Grogu sleep?”
Grogu himself points his little hands to an adorable baby-sized hammock in the corner. “Patu!”
“Yes, it’ll be naptime soon,” said Djin. “We’ll just finish this lady’s questions and tidy up first.”
Din Djarin allows Melanie approximately one minute to examine the cooking and bathroom arrangements, then invites her back outside.
“Well?”
“I will need to review your replies, of course, and complete my paperwork.”
“What does that mean, ma’am? You understand I am the child’s sole guardian. I am sworn to protect him.”
Well, that’s good, if a bit weird, but then again he’s Mandalorian.
“I understand.”
Melanie looks at her response list so far. The cabin isn’t huge but it’s not actually that small; plenty of Nevarrans live in less pleasant spaces. It’s also incredibly clean. As clean as the weapons. What looked like a tyre by the door actually seems to be a ventilator: the temperature in the cabin is agreeably cool. Din Djarin is clearly a loving parent and the child appears well kept and happy.
“Just a couple of points. The frog …”
“He’ll eat most things, especially cookies, but frogs are a particular favourite. I’m trying to stop him playing with them first.”
“Maybe he’ll grow out of it. And the robe seems warm for this temperature?”
“He feels the cold.” Din Djarin seems to be losing patience now.
“Babysitters when you’re working?”
He hesitates. “It’s complicated.”
Melanie sighs. “I know what you mean. Childcare is a nightmare sometimes. I have multiple arrangements myself.
“Very well, sir. We’ll be in touch.”
“I cannot lose him. He’s already lost so much.”
Melanie’s heart melts. So many lost children, so many orphans. Not just in Nevarro.
“Nevarro will be a good place for him to grow up now, I hope, with people like you to protect us. And between ourselves, I think I can say you don’t have anything to worry about, Din Djarin.”
She’ll just have a word with this neighbour on her way back to town. If necessary, there’s probably something she can find to make sure he doesn’t cause more trouble.