July 9th, 1956. Han Solo had ignored his birthday for so many years that this one—his twenty-fourth—would have passed unnoticed if Chewie hadn't insisted on Han taking the day off. At first, Han snorted: birthdays were for kids.

"I never knew you were so sentimental, pal," Han said, crossing the diner kitchen to the peg by the back door where he hung his tool belt. Wedge called from the grill that there was a heating coil in the dishwasher that needed looking at. Okay, Han answered, sure, and then there was that faulty oven timer, and when it stopped raining he'd get the ladder out take a look at the soffits; that line cook, Wes (or was it Kes? Was there a Kes and a Wes in the same kitchen?) saw a wasp's nest up there. Plus—

Chewie cut Han and Wedge off with something about spending one's day of birth on rituals of manhood, or maybe it was just a grunt. But Han always got what Chewie meant, even if no one else seemed to.

Han leaned his long body against the tile wall. "Sorry, guys. No go on them dirty plates." Han coughed. "Chewie says I gotta go kill a bear with a spear he carved outta the beak of a hawk."

Against the laughter of Wedge and Wes (...and Kes?), Chewie brandished the huge metal spatula that often delivered a hell of a slap to Han's arm or leg or even ass when he got too mouthy. Then Chewie growled some bit about set yourself a noble task, or maybe it was go into the woods and confront the truth of yourself. It was hard to tell with all that red Viking beard in the way, but Han understood when Chewie was adamant. So Han shrugged and off he went into downtown New Hope, with no idea what to do with himself.

At first he'd loped down the main drag, head bent against the rain, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. It didn't take long to walk downtown's entire four blocks—Han was long-legged, and New Hope was small; he'd seen it all in his two months in town. Han considered browsing new records at the five-and-dime, or the magazines at Knapp's Drugs. He could catch a flick, maybe check out the pool hall just over the railroad tracks. Or he could drive out to Cloud City for a drink, hopefully a game of cards. The corner of Han's mouth crawled up. Rituals of manhood, huh? Maybe that cute singer, Donna, would be around.

Han doubled back to Chewie's diner, where he'd left his truck. Soon he was at the outskirts of New Hope, heading for Lando's tavern—it was just eleven in the morning, but him and Lando went way back, he'd let Han in—when he spotted the hitchhiker walking backward along the side of the road, thumb upthrust. And Han felt an impulse, even a compulsion, to pick him up. Maybe it was the way the blond kid was walking, not sitting around waiting for a lift. Han respected that gumption: he'd always kept walking, himself, in the past when he'd been forced to hitch and no one would stop. Not for the first time, Han patted a palm gratefully against Millie's steering wheel.

Maybe it was because this kid seemed powered by some integral good nature, smiling, nearly bouncing on his heels as he walked. Han often deployed his own lopsided grin to get what he wanted, but there was no guile on this towhead's face: his smile was beaming, hopeful, trusting. Out in the rain, soaked to the skin, and still the kid radiated an essential sunniness.

(Maybe he picked the kid up just for the company. Han's disregard for his birthday, though genuine, was part of the emotional callus he'd built up over the years as surely as the literal ones on his hands. But underneath that functional toughness was a persistent, unconscious loneliness that grew acute every July.)

Whatever the reason, Han pulled over. He leaned across the bench seat and popped the lock on the passenger door, and the kid actually whooped for joy as he hopped inside. Han rolled his eyes. These Indiana kids, man, were square as hell. Slamming the door, the kid shook raindrops from his short blond hair and chirped, "Hey! Buddy!"

Han raised his eyebrows. "Uh, hi there, buddy."

The boy grinned so hard his blue eyes crinkled. "No, I mean," he said, gesturing at the truck's radio, "Buddy Holly. You like rock 'n' roll?"

Han turned up the volume. Sure enough, "Peggy Sue" was bounding into its exuberant solo. He glanced over his shoulder before pulling out into the deserted road. There was no real traffic out here in the sticks, but old city habits died hard. "Where you headed, kid?"

"Starwood," the kid said.

"Where's that?" Han asked, tapping his index finger on the wheel along with the beat. He did like rock 'n' roll, though he saw no reason to tell some stranger that. Music had gotten Han through some hard times. When he was sixteen, running those laundry deliveries. Basic training, then, overseas. Most recently, on that frantic, headlong drive from Baltimore, the radio had kept him going those edgy hours, kept his eyes open and his pedal to the floor.

"Half-hour down the road. Less, the speed you're going." The boy tilted his head. Han had the uncomfortable feeling of being read. "I thought you were from around here? You look familiar."

Han lifted a shoulder. "I'm from a lotta places."

Han had already placed the blond kid. He'd seen him at Chewie's a few times, though not lately; played the jukebox, got a milkshake. Seemed to be friends with the kitchen guys, Wedge and Wes and Kes. Though the kitchen gang looked a lot different than this preppy kid, in their greased-up ducktails and jeans and leather. But they all seemed to click; he'd seen them jawing with this kid on their breaks, talking hot rods and Elvis and chicks.

"I'm Luke," the boy said.

"Han." Han shook Luke's outstretched hand. Luke scrubbed the sleeve of his blue button-down against his wet hair, gazing openly at Han. "Wait a minute," Luke said, happily. "I do know you. You're from New Hope, too."

"I'm not from New Hope," Han muttered.

"I mean, you work at Chewie's place."

"I work a lotta jobs, kid."

Luke looked crestfallen at Han's terseness. Han softened, some. Luke seemed like a nice kid. Not like those rich jock pricks who came into Chewie's on Friday nights. They'd loosen the rotating counter stools at their bases, so they'd wobble. Unscrew the light-bulbs in the men's room. They'd laugh and smirk as Han passed by, smart off about his tool-belt. Han didn't let it bug him, most of the time. He figured them for about nineteen; Han was older, and he was damn sure he'd seen more than they had. These twerps didn't even rate Han's anger. Except for that biggest jock, the blond, their leader. Theo – Quarterback stitched on the sleeve of his letter jacket. Just last week, Theo spilled a milkshake just to watch Annie clean it up. Han scowled, remembering Theo's lewd commentary as Annie bent over with her cloth. That guy just might get himself punched. Not at the diner, though. Han didn't want to bring Chewie any heat.

"Yeah, Chewie's an old pal," Han allowed. "I'm around the diner sometimes. Think I've seen you, too." He cocked his head at Luke. "You got wheels, don't you? Cream Buick, red stripes?"

Luke lit up. "Yep! You've seen my car?"

"Sure," Han said. "That's a solid ride. Convertible?"

"Yeah, the Roadmaster 2. Saved up my paper route money for three years."

"Good for you. The R2 rolled out in, what, '47?"

"I think so? Needs a little work, but-"

"Hell, that's the fun part!" Han gave the steering wheel a pat. "Millie here's a '49 Chev. Barely ran when I got her. Now I know she don't look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid: '55 bent-8. Fastest old bird around."

"She's got a new V-8 engine?" Luke marvelled. "You do that yourself?"

"That's right." Han was pleased with Luke's assumption. "I've always liked messin' with machinery." He'd earned several mechanical and carpentry classifications in the army, but he didn't see a reason to tell a near-stranger that, either. Still, the kid had gone up again in Han's estimation by earning his own wheels. Han thought again of those jocks, gunning their expensive engines in Chewie's parking lot. All those beautiful cars, bought for them by their fathers. For graduations. Christmases. Birthdays. For a moment, Han burned with every old bitterness. Unconsciously he caressed the dashboard, soothing himself. Ah, no matter. No shiny, soulless sports car could hold a candle to his Millie.

"So, Luke. Why you hitchin' when you could be ridin' with the top down?"

Luke smiled, wryly. "It's raining."

Han snorted.

"If I took my car, my father would know I'd gone." Luke looked at his hands. "I'm not allowed out."

"Jeez, kid. What was your offence?"

"Got drunk with Wedge and Kes and Wes, back in June."

Han gave a low whistle. "You've been on lockdown for a month?"

Luke looked out at the woodland rolling by. "Father is strict." Luke seemed tense, so Han let the radio do the talking for a couple klicks. Soon, Luke had relaxed enough to nod his head along to the song: Han recognized The Coasters, singing "Searchin'."

"What's in Starwood?" Han asked, carefully.

Luke brightened. "My cousin." He patted his palms in an eager beat against his chino-clad thighs. "How about you, Han? Where you headed?"

Gonna find her, chanted the Coasters.

"It's my bir—my day off," Han shrugged. "Sometimes I just like to drive. See the countryside."

Han wasn't going to talk about Cloud City with this kid, not illicit card games and noon-time drinks; he knew Lando was playing it straight with his new place—well, more or less. (Han also wasn't going to talk about the dressing room with Donna last week before she went onstage, how she'd wanted it quick and rough, skirt hiked up on that ugly plaid couch.) But "liking to drive" wasn't Han's standard bullshit: the rural woodscape around New Hope made Han, a city boy born and raised, feel a strange peace. Especially now, full summer. It was clean out here in a way that let a man breathe.

Han rolled down the window. Luke rolled his down too. The rain had stopped; a gulf of blue was opening in the north. Exhilarated by rushing air, the smell of firs and wet earth, Han felt as though he could merge with that opening sky. Instinctively he sped up, shifting from third gear to fourth as though gaining speed for liftoff. Then a new vibration in the gearshift sent a minute wrongness into Han's palm, fingertips, wrist. He winced, eased off the gas. He'd have to double-check Millie's transmission.

"Say." Luke turned his eager blue gaze on Han. "How about running my cousin and I back to New Hope?"

Han exhaled. "It's my day off."

"C'mon, please?" Wow, Luke could really whine when it suited him. "I gotta get back before my father gets home from work. He can be..."

The kid looked so bleak that Han felt a qualm of conscience, which he fought off with bluster. "Hell, kid, I don't see how is this my prob-"

"I'll pay you two hundred dollars," Luke blurted.

Han shut his mouth. Two hundred would take care of several auto modifications. Or he could sock it away in his Florida fund. Those beaches were looking closer by the day.

(Gonna...)

An itchy feeling rose in Han's gut. His sixth sense, his sense of luck. Since he was a child, Han had recognized this thrill of good fortune. It happened when he met Chewie. When he was dealt the right cards. When he won Millie. When he felt that tingle of faith Han hurled himself after it, no questions asked.

(...find her.)

"All right," Han said, with studied indifference. "Two hundred bucks. You got yourself a driver."

The two young men shook hands. Luke beamed and punched the air and, in spite of himself, Han smiled. This kid really was the living end. Han didn't even mind when Luke leaned over and turned up the radio without asking.

(Gonna find her.)

Good one, Solo, Han's mind-voice whispered: the wry, skeptical voice in Han's head that counterbalanced his exuberant sense of fate. He trusted the mind-voice as much as he did his good-luck gut; that voice had kept him alive in Korea, more than once. Couple months in New Hope and you've already found trouble.