Luke accepts the flask, takes a fair swig and then passes it back. Fancy drinks have always hurt his stomach, but the worse the rotgut, the more comfortable he is with it. Outside Anchorhead, there's not much else to do but drink, shoot womp rats, and screw. He figures that being good at two out of three are good odds, even if none are becoming of a Jedi.

"I'd wondered why there and not anywhere else. It's not the worst place on the Rim, but it's nextdoor." Luke shrugs. He's curious about his father, and he wants to ask more, but this conversation isn't about his needs.

"Before you taught me, Uncle Owen always said that he was a spice runner." Luke shrugs. He hated the lie, but now he understood what Owen had tried to do. "The long and the short of it is that something very bad happened at the end of the Clone War. The Sith were involved and it was decided that I ought to be hidden. Better an under-educated hick with a bad name than the other option."