"Oh," she said softly, as the weight of what he was saying settled around her shoulders. "I understand what you mean. In the FBI ... we don't have the same powers the Jedi do, but we have the same edict and duty to protect people and keep a balance. I had an instructor, John Brigham, who taught me a great deal. Not just about firearms, like he was assigned to, but about how the culture of things worked in the Bureau. About what sort of person could endure the burdens of it best. Probably a lot like Obi-Wan is doing for you, really. I was young, and, yes -" she bobbled her head a bit, flashing him a self-deprecating smile. "-I thought he was cute. My roommate and I used to moon over him a bit. But we knew that was a Bad Idea, capital B, capital I, and I'm glad I didn't do anything stupid. John ended up being one of my best friends in the Bureau. Maybe we could've been more, but we'd never know, because ... we had to keep that professionality."

As she spoke, her gaze strayed to the pistol laying on the crate she'd been using as a dresser. It was unloaded, the magazine out, and she'd assembled a rudimentary cleaning kit: a sure sign that it was a piece she treated with great care. If Ezra had been around weapons, he might be able to tell it had seen more wear than Clarice could have given it on her own.