They find the baby under a butterfly bush, a sweet smelling buddleja with purple flowers and narrow, green leaves. The baby is dirty, wet and hungry, wrapped in a fur blanket, and this close its squalling is loud enough to wake the dead. -- Or the one where Stiles' mom was a harpy and passed certain genes along.

“Can't kriffing believe he sent a Naboo to kriffing Tatooine,” Owen says, too loud, but—they're in the middle of the wilderness. There's no one who’s going to hear him except the Force, and if it does hear him, he hopes it turns around and beats some light-bedamned sense into Obi-Wan Kenobi’s skull. In his lap, fully entranced by the corner of the blanket Owen has him bundled in, Luke coos, beams, and flips his tail. The fancy, flowing, colorful fins slap Owen’s thigh, and he sighs, tugs the bottom of the wrap down to hide as much as he can.