Tabula Rasa

"Always keep moving," her father had told her through blood flecked lips. She had. Since then she had never slept in the same place twice. Always moving. Always heading West. Until today. She'd found this place last night, hidden in the rubble of a bombed out apartment block. An actual bed, inexplicably free of the detritus of war, light filtering through the cracked concrete ceiling. She slept better than she had in years. Deep; too deep perhaps. She had dreamed of eating pancakes in a diner on her birthday, but opposite her was not her dad but an officer of the Order. Handsome. One more night would be OK, she hadn't seen any tracking drones for weeks. She needed to repair her rucksack, snagged on barbed wire. Just one more night. She washed and repaired her bag. Found some tinned food not too far out of date. She ate. She slept. She dreamt of the diner again, with the handsome officer. She tasted the maple syrup, the pancake, the cool tang of a strawberry. She looked across the table, the officer's eyes were like ice. His voice was the crackle of a military radio and she took her last bite.