"She is smiling at you," Baze informs Chirrut, while patting his knee. "I think she likes you."

The woman laughs again, and heads over to a counter across the room to gather supplies. She returns to wrap a bacta patch around Chirrut's wrist with all the professionalism her occupation demands, and then brandishes two syringes.

"Ugh," Baze says. "Here come the needles."