Just close your eyes

The sun is going down

You'll be alright

No one can hurt you now

Come morning light

You and I'll be safe and sound

—Taylor Swift, "Safe and Sound"

I'm not in the habit of sharing my dwelling with anyone. The last person who ever asked if they could "stay the night" was a sand-encrusted fellow with several missing front teeth and rags for clothes. It was a good thing he'd taken the trouble to cut his hair in an attempt to look more respectable. Otherwise I might've missed the brand on his neck that marked him as a penal colony inmate.

"No vacancies here," I'd said—and when he tried to force his way in and do who knows what to me or my place, I pulled out my staff and let him know I wasn't in the mood to argue about it.

I'm happy to say he left without further protest. And I haven't had any trouble like that since. I think word got around that I don't take kindly to visitors.

Which is fine by me. I'm strong; I know how to take care of myself. But that doesn't mean I still don't wake up with nightmares sometimes about that inmate bursting through my wrecked AT-AT's wind-battered hull, clamping a bony hand around my neck, and choking the life out of me.

No, I'm not keen on visitors. And I padlock the AT-AT's door at night.

But I am lonely. Which is why the sight of this little BB-8 droid rolling alongside me through the sand makes me want to squeal with delight in spite of the defensive scowl I'm trying to keep on my face until I get back into the shadow of my improvised dwelling.

The droid is oblivious to my scowling, thank goodness. It just rolls along happily, beeping and booping incessantly. I've spent enough time around droids to understand their language. It's all I can do to keep from grinning as I translate the sounds from Droid to Standard in my own head.

"It's so hoooooot! Do you liiiiiiiiiike it? Where I come from, it's nice and coooooool—and greeeeeeeeen!"

"Green?" I say, with a light scoff. "Listen, little guy—or girl—whatever you are—I've heard all the stories about totally green worlds. If they exist, then I'm the Governor of Jakku."

The droid's round head wobbles up towards me; it fixes me with its single dark eye.

"You aaaaaaaaare?!"

I raise my eyebrows and can't help smiling now with a look that says, Do I look like an overgrown slug to you? The BB-8 gives a relieved boop and quickens its roll to keep up with my lengthening strides through an especially deep sand dune.

"Careful, little one," I say, touching his head and steering him away from a slight depress in the ground. "That's quicksand."

A startled beep this time. "How do you knooooooow?"

I sigh. "I've lived on Jakku since I was five years old. I learned how to check for quicksand long before I learned how to scavenge. That's what I do, you know. This planet is so littered with wrecked ships, I can get twenty pounds worth of loot a day sometimes—and then I bring it to Unkar Plutt and he sells it. I think there was some kind of battle here during the Rebellion…you can find everything from Imperial destroyers to rebel fighters! At least, I think they're rebel fighters. Small planes, some of them with the paint still intact. Sometimes you even find helmets and unifor—"

I cut myself off, glance at the droid. It keeps rolling, but looks up at me with a quizzical look when I stop talking.

Yes, droids can look quizzical. They don't have faces, but they definitely have body language.

"Am I talking too much?" I ask.

The BB-8 turns its head from side to side. I swallow back a sigh of relief. I haven't said more than six words at a time to anyone except for—

No, don't think about her, I think bitterly. You don't want to cry in front of a droid, do you?

"Uniforms," I say out loud instead. "I found one one time. A whole uniform, jumpsuit and all. But the jumpsuit was too big for me, so I cut the seams open and then made a blanket out of it. It's quite thick…it keeps me warm at night when the temperatures drop down below freezing. And I still have the helmet. I pretend I'm a fighter when I put it on. Rey, the valiant Resistance pilot!"

I clench my fists and start strutting, head up, knees high, and giggle. The BB-8 lets out a delighted squeal; I turn back to look at it and laugh again, sheepish this time.

"I'm really too old to be acting like this," I say.

"Whyyyyy? Do humans get too old to laugh?"

I consider that a moment…then shake my head.

"No," I say, softly. "Humans should never be too old to laugh."

"Gooooooood, because I don't ever want my master to stop laughing."

I whirl, face the little droid. "You have a master, then?"

For the first time since I tore it out of Teedo's net, the droid hesitates. It slows down, quivers a little. I've walked about a yard ahead of it with all my silly strutting; I trace back to it quickly and look it in the eye.

"If you have a master, you should tell his name. You're a valuable little droid, you know. And don't give me that 'Who me?' look!" I add with a laugh at its embarrassed warble. "Is he a good master?"

A deafening succession of affirmative peeps and chimes makes the answer very obvious.

"Well, then," I say, ignoring the disappointment sinking into my stomach, because I don't really want to say goodbye to it now, "if he's that kind, you should be returned. But I can't help you if I don't know his name."

The BB-8 hesitates again, swivels its head towards the sand dunes from which we've come. There's nothing to be seen but sand and the purple-orange horizon as the sun continues to set. When the wind picks up, I feel a chill needling its way through my colorless clothing, nipping at my bare shoulders. I knew when I stepped out with my supper I should've brought my cloak…

Finally there's a response, so sad and frightened that my chest twists in sympathy.

"I don't knooooooooow where he is."

The droid keeps its head down, dejected. I frown. A droid doesn't just go around losing its master…unless…

But no, he wouldn't run away, not if he loves his master.

What if his master is dead?

"BB-8?"

The droid turns, looks at me with its one eye. Another chilly wind blows in from the west; I shiver, decide against prodding.

"Never mind. Let's hurry to my place before it gets too cold out here."

The droid lets out what passes for its kind as a weary sigh. I gesture with my hand for it to follow and it obeys—but this time I don't walk ahead of it. I keep pace with its no-longer-enthusiastic rolling, sensing—somehow—that it doesn't want to be alone anymore than I do.

It's a good thing I have an old ramp stowed away inside the AT-AT. Strong as I am, I don't think I could carry the droid inside by myself. Once we're both inside I shut—and padlock—the hatch. While BB-8 peeks with blatant curisoity around the cramped room, I turn on the power. The flickering lights illuminate the thin layer of dust and sand I never seem able to scrub away completely.

Like I said, I'm not used to visitors. No one but myself has ever seen the inside of this AT-AT.

"Sorry it's a mess," I say. "I know I've filled it with a bunch of junk."

"Ooooooooh, prettyyyyyy!" is the only response I get—and it's not even directed to me. I step away from my makeshift table where I eat if the weather's bad in time to see BB-8 open a hatch in its side and activate its extension arm. It touches a chunk of jagged but sparkly-clean, transparent rock lying on the wooden shelf I made out of a crate and bolted to the wall beside my bed. I take up the stone, squat to the droid's eye level, hold up my treasure.

"I found this in one of those destroyers I was telling you about," I say, smiling with pride as I turn it over between my fingertips. "I think it was part of a window. Ships that go into space…they have to have these thick, thick windowpanes to keep out the cold—"

"I knooooooow."

It's a cheerful, innocent statement, but I feel my spine straighten in surprise—and as soon as I stiffen, BB-8 freezes.

"You know? Now, how would you know about starship specifications?" I ask, gently poking it in the middle of its round base.

BB-8 warbles indistinctly, but its embarrassment is obvious. It rolls away from me. I shake my head, amused—until it extends its metal arm again and touches something soft and sky-blue peeking out of a half-open drawer in the wall.

Panic chokes me. I leap to my feet, jerk the fabric from the droid's prying claw, and stuff it into the drawer—which I then proceed to slam.

I turn on the droid, breathing hard, ready to give it such a scolding that it probably won't dare touch any of my things ever again without asking permission. But all the ridiculous anger and terror drain out of me immediately at the sight of poor BB-8 backing away from me, trembling as it shrieks its apologies.

"I'm sooooooorry! I'm sooooooorry, I didn't knooooooow! What is it?"

It peeks to the side like it can't resist peering at the drawer behind me, and then realizes what it's doing. It squeaks again in sheer terror.

"I'm sooooooorry! Please don't deactivate meeeeeeee! Please don't smash meeeeeee!"

I let out a shuddering breath; my shoulders slump.

"Pleeeeeeeeease!"

The high-pitched begging makes me wince. I clamp both hands over my ears.

"Calm down, calm down! I'm not going to smash you!"

BB-8 goes quiet, but still quakes like it's afraid I'll pull out a sledgehammer and turn it into scrap metal. I wonder, for the thousandth time, how long it's been wandering around Jakku without its master…how frightened it must be without him…where his master might be.

It's looking for someone…waiting…

For someone wonderful.

Just like me.

I turn slowly, open the drawer. My fingertips run over fabric so smooth and satiny, it feels like sacrilege to touch it with my rough, calloused hands. But I draw it out anyway, letting it ripple over my palms. When I turn back to face it, the droid stops rattling and makes a hesitant but curious forward roll.

"All right," I say softly, "you can see. Just don't touch. I don't want anything to tear it."

BB-8 creeps forward. I settle in front of it on the floor, knees bent and spread, elbows propped atop them, and hold out the blanket. BB-8 leans its head within five inches of the fabric. I can tell, by the intensifying hum of its inner workings, that it's analyzing the blanket.

"This," I whisper, "is all I have left of my parents."

BB-8 lets out a surprised beep and looks at me, then lowers its gaze back to the blanket. I rub the material gently between my fingers.

"It's the only thing I…I had with me when my father brought me here. I didn't even have any clothes—except for what I was wearing." My throat feels tight, like the escaped convict of my nightmares has my neck pinned to the wall. "But I was wrapped up in this when he carried me down the ramp—I remember that—and when Morga took me in…"

I choke. BB-8 cocks its head to the side. My clothes are dusty and sweat-stained, as usual, but I don't care. I hold the blanket close to my chest, hugging it like I'm trying to absorb whatever love is leftover in it from the father who wrapped me in its folds…from the mother who must've embroidered my name in white lettering in the corner…

Rey.

I run my fingers over the name, trying to envision another woman's hands—clean and soft but strong, oh-so-strong—pushing and pulling the needle in and out. I try to imagine those same hands pulling me into her lap and rubbing my arm and back as she rocks me to sleep…stroking my dark hair back from my face…wiping tears from my cheeks…

The way Morga, the village laundress, did for the first five years I spent on Jakku. Not young, yet not old either…strong-armed, but gentle-hearted…the woman whose husband tore me out of my father's arms and pulled me away from the leaving ship while I screamed and sobbed for my father to stay.

The woman whose death—along with her husband's—left me without anyone to call a friend.

BB-8 bumps my foot and I suddenly realize I'm sobbing. I'm doubled over and clutching the blanket to my chest, tears streaming down my filthy cheeks as the memories scour my raw loneliness like a sandstorm.

This is the first time I've cried in a long, long time.

First time I've pulled out the blanket in a while, for that matter.

"It's okaaaaaaaaay, Reeeeeeeeey—Reeeeeey—it's okaaaaaaaaay—Reeeeey—Reeey—Rey-Rey, Rey-Rey…"

BB-8 keeps bumping my foot, its pleas becoming more insist until its pronunciation of my name turns into a quick, nickname-like whine. Rey-Rey. Rey-Rey. I sniffle, lift my head. The droid warbles in relief.

"You okaaaaaaay?!"

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. "Yeah. I think so."

"I'm soooooooorry I touched it."

I manage a shaky laugh and start to get up. "That's okay. I'm just…I'm just silly."

"NOT SILLY!" the droid screeches, startling me so badly I slam onto my backside. "NOT SILLY! Sad—Master says sad is okaaaaaaay—don't be sorry for sad."

I stare at it for a moment, surprised. And then I smile through my tears.

"Your master," I say, as I stand, "must be a good, kind man. Every time anyone's ever seen me cry, they've always told me to…'grow up,' 'don't be silly.' Which is why I never do it in front of just anyone anymore."

I lay the blanket back in its drawer and smile at BB-8 over my shoulder. "Consider yourself highly-favored, little droid."

It wobbles back and forth happily. "Friend of Reeeeeeeeeeey!"

"Yes," I say, patting its head. "Friend of Rey."

I plug BB-8 into a power socket so it'll charge overnight. It lets out a pleased sigh and a couple of sleepy chimes as I pull off my boots, change into the loose-fitting, oversized shirt included with the thick red jumpsuit, and let my hair go loose.

"Need anything else, BB-8?"

It shakes its head and gives another contented sound.

"Tomorrow I'll let you come with me to scavenge," I say. "I'll show you all my old haunts. We'll have a grand time—and then we'll sell our things for our dinner. Well, my dinner. But you'll have a good time. And while we're in town, we'll ask about your master. What did you say his name was?"

"Poooooooooooe."

"Poe." Funny that I haven't gotten a last name—but I'll probably coax it out of this skittish new friend in the morning. Scavenging teaches you to have an abundance of patience. "Right, then. We'll ask if anyone knows anyone around here named 'Poe.' But for now, you need your recharge, and I'm going to get some sleep. Goodnight, BB-8."

"Goodniiiiiiiiiiiight, Rey."

I smile, run my hand gently over its head. Then I swing my legs up into my bunk and pull the thick uniform blanket over myself. The last thing I know is the droid's soft humming, the slow blink of its lights, and the milk-soft feel of sky-blue fabric against my cheek.

Tonight I'm not alone. It's enough to make me almost believe there'll be a day where I'll never be alone again. Where there'll always be a friend…where my family will always be there for me.

But those are the things dreams are made of. And tonight I suspect I'll sleep soundly, with no dreams at all, secure in the knowledge that there'll be a little droid keeping me company tomorrow…and the next day…and for as many days as it takes me to find his master.

It's nice to finally have a reason to wonder what tomorrow will bring.