What is it like to be someone who doesn't exist?  Winter knows all too well.  What does it mean when the world can no longer rely on the slow grinding wheels of bureaucracy to tell them who truly exists?  For someone like Winter, it could mean freedom.

Born to parents entranced with ideals of a world without borders, without government, and with an idealized utopian view of innate natural human goodness that only does not exist due to the crushing weight of modern life, Winter was born outside of civilization.  Never registered, never belonging to any country, her parents spending much of their time with various groups of travelers.

In time, she grew and attempted to set out on her own, wanting to discover more about the world.  However, for someone without citizenship, or identification... with no paper trail of ever having existed, she found herself relegated to a life trying to remain under the radar, to never draw attention to herself from authorities.

Then, the world began to change.

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Winter lets out a deep sigh as she settles beside the cookstove at her fallback camp, taking a moment to lean back and take off her damp outer clothing and spread them out to dry.  Today had been... hard.  Nothing she hadn't seen before, but it never really got easier.  She saw the signs, a familiar pattern she had seen enough times before to recognize when the end was coming.  The Travelers were nice enough people... but their leadership was weak, and the residents of their town the same.  A constant influx of new people without hard rules... no clear central cause to unify them.  The overly empathetic attitude towards dangerous weaknesses.

She leans her head forwards, taking a moment to rub and pinch at the bridge of her nose, feeling the familiar tension of her oncoming headache.  She cared, but... there is no place in this world anymore to care, to have friends.  Those were luxuries of the old world, pleasantries of a soft and now demolished world.  She reaches into her pack, fumbling around a moment before finding a small plastic wrapped package and pulling it out, carefully unwrapping it to reveal a small diary.  She takes a moment to run a finger lightly over the slightly fraying corners, staring at it for a long moment before finally putting it down so that it can dry of any moisture that might have slipped through its carefully wrapped protection.

The sun begins to set, the warm sunlight slowly being replaced by the flickering strokes of firelight from the cookstove, and with it her eyes begin to close.  A slight draft leaks through the cracks around the windows of the cabin she has had prepared to fall back to when everything eventually collapsed.  A slight rustle drifts around the room, the draft toying at the pages of her diary, finally the cover lifts enough to fall to the side, revealing a picture of Winter, beside a bearded man, and holding a young child between them perhaps two years old at the time.  Before them lies a campfire, and behind an old battered motorhome and several tents.  Almost as soon as the picture folds into view, a strong draft flips more of the pages, too fast to make anything out, stopping as it reaches a point where the pages are creased, clearly having been opened to this section many many times before, a natural resting place in the binding.

***Left Page***

Shaky writing covers the page, the ink darkening in places where the pen had rested a while or pressed too hard.

"Jan came back from hunting... he is not doing well.  He encountered one of those... things..."

"I don't... he had large scrapes and a bite on his arm... it bit through his clothes... I disinfected and cleaned it... but his temperature keeps rising.  It already looks infected, swollen, dark redness."

"He keeps begging me to kill him... I know it's just the fever.  Even if he has the infection... the newspapers say that there could be a cure soon."

"For safety... I've locked him in the motorhome, I'll keep checking on him.  I just have to be strong... to keep us together until this whole thing is fixed.  They will find a cure like they always do.  We will be fine again."
 

***Right Page***

The writing is jagged and broken, the page stained with old dried water droplets

"Should have listened"

"Should have shot him"

"He got out"

"I shot him"

"He killed..."

"Why didn't I listen???"

"Nothing left... no-one left"

"My precious baby... I'm so so sorry."

The writing trails off, a deep rip in the paper trailing down from the final letter where the pen had pressed hard enough to tear it.  Half asleep, Winter hears the soft rustle of the pages trying to turn further, and a sleepy motion of her hand fumbles over to find the diary, closing it once more as she begins to drift off in the fading flickers of the firelight.