“Reese, DN38416.”  The heavy steel door scraped open to admit the patrol.  Reese offered his hand to the dogs standing guard with the human sentries, passing canine check with wagging tails and toothy grins.  He signed in.  And the weight of his fatigue settled on his shoulders and back like a slab of concrete. 

Reese ambled down the passageway with a sigh of relief.  Another day of boredom and terror in equal measures was now coming to a close.  He walked in search of a spot to bed down for the night and immediately saw the little girl who lived in a cleared corner near the entrance to the warren of fetid, crumbling basements.  She smiled at him as always before bunching herself shyly against the wall.  It was a pleasant spark in a tedious day.

Impulsively, Reese approached her doorway.  In post war, no one had the luxury of private shelter, so a system of respecting people’s boundaries had evolved, be they defined by a pile of old shoes or a string or makeshift wooden barrier like the one he now approached.  The girl retreated into her space as Reese knelt down at her front door.  She eyed him warily in this new position of possible harm.

“Hi. I’m Reese.”  She did not say anything, but seemed a little less threatened by his proximity.  She was taking in all the details, his pulse rifle, flashlight, the name printed on his uniform, his hand as it rested on the top of the flimsy wooden gate. 

She finally said “Did you hurt your leg today?”  

“Yes, a little,” he said, surprised at her perception.  He had been a bit too close to a plasma burst and the wall of air and debris had thrown Reese headlong over a berm of broken concrete slabs.  His thigh had slammed into one of the protruding sections of rebar leaving the muscles deeply bruised, however, he considered himself fortunate he would merely be walking with a limp for a few days. “Are you by yourself?” She looked about eight.

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“That’s Joan,” said a disembodied voice from across the passageway.  When Reese turned to look, a boy’s head and a scrap of melted plastic serving as a gun popped over the concrete divider.  There were sounds imitating gun blasts. Reese pretended to duck and said, “Hold your fire! Friendly!”  Wincing at his aching leg, he stood and held up his hands in brief surrender.  This brought a satisfied grin.  “Reese, Sergeant/Tech Com DN38416.” He held out a hand and the boy shook it.  “Who are you, soldier?”

“Martin, Sir.”

“That’s Ian,” Joan said.  “Martin’s his last name.” 

“Oh. I see,” Reese said, amused at the boy’s attempt at formality.  “Well, carry on, Private.” Ian’s chest puffed out noticeably.  Taking his leave, Reese turned back to the girl, “And it was nice to meet you, Joan.”  She held out her hand finally and he shook it as a wave of lightheadedness hit him.  Time to find some food and get some sleep.

“See you, Reese.” He walked away buoyed by her small voice. THE END