"OY!" The old man gasped out, as soon as the damned lightsaber connected with his chinny-chin-chin, but much to his surprise: it didn't even hurt that much; it felt rather like a second-degree burn, at the very most. He yowled out in pain, nevertheless, because that was what this boy seemed to be expecting.

But when he was done crying out in pain, he set his jaw determinedly, almost as if he was planning to help his pa stretch out a batch of noodles with his teeth alone, and rejoined the "conversation" they'd been having before: "Hey, I am a doctor, son; of COURSE it's my damned concern; because it IS my business!" And with that, he made a sharp move to knock the damned lightsaber out of the way, and hopefully out of the damned boy's hand, too— and then, he reached forward with equal amounts of grit and determination, in order to probe his fingers into the wound, searching for the bullet or other projectile, but was most surprised to find: "Hey, son; where's the damned BULLET what did this to you?"