It had been three years since Brice had returned from her third tour of duty. This last one had been a year in Afghanistan as support staff. Now her support came in the form of her left leg, a space-aged prosthetic. For the past two, she’d hung out in the darkness of her apartment when she wasn’t at the pool finishing up her rehab after getting out of Walter Reed. As she stood looking out the window, she thought about how it had been before the military: she had enjoyed coming to the studio, stretching her hamstrings on the barre. Just like then, she pulled her hair back into the best braid she could do with shaky hands that always shook before she took to the floor. She wondered if she could get used to the tap-shush sound of metal on the wood floor instead of the shush-shush of two slippers as she got her dance swag back. Only time would tell.
For Picture & Write.