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Description
Teagan wailed loudly as the small of her head crashed against the table leg, rocking in place, rubbing her wispy hair and scalp, her parents running over to pick her up and rock her shushing her softly as they checked for bruising. Their freckled baby quieted, sniffling through bubbles of snot in her father's arms while her mother scowled marching back to the nursery, shouting out her frustrations at her husband, certain he had failed to lock the crib. He followed after, his daughter reaching out for something on the table and crying as he started taking her away from it, squirming in his grasp. Confused, he looked back at the table, looking to see what she had been wanting, baffled as he only saw a lemon wedge next to his tea. His wife returned as he picked it up, staring at it, then almost dropped it as she pulled him toward the nursery. The hand drifted closer to Teagan and she snatched the wedge as the family entered the baby's former prison. Shaking her head, Teagan's mother gestured to the crib and the baby fence. The first, circumvented by piling her stuffed animals in a corner, the second by stepping onto her push car, climbing over the edge of both. The wife started apologizing, then cried out in shock, startling her husband, but Teagan merely continued to suckle on the lemon wedge, lips puckered, yet holding it to her face while in her father's arms.

Seven years later, Teagan fell onto the asphalt for the last time trying to catch up to the other children, her pigeon-toed legs tripping over one another, her hands scraping up and bleeding for the twelfth time that month. Her parents took her in for a consult and arranged corrective surgery. All the while the doctors spoke with her parents on the way to the surgical room she listened, trying to stay awake, curious, but the drugs in the grape juice they had given her finally wore her down. She awoke hours later with two casts on in a hospital room. Two hours later she almost fell out of the bed trying to reach the television remote herself rather than pressing the button to call for the nurse.

Tears of sharp pain streamed down her cheeks a month and a half later as she grit her teeth, gripping the parallel bars in the rehab center, trying to pull herself up to a standing position and walk. She stumbled and almost collapsed, a hand the small of her back to help her up gingerly, asking if she wanted to rest and try again. Shaking her hand she leaning on her left leg, trying to pull herself up again. And again. And again. Slowly she crept forward on the bars, trying to pull herself up and forward, the aide finally pulling the wheelchair around to the other side as she shuddered, growling lightly and grimacing, standing, covered in sweat, then collapsed into the seat of the wheelchair. Panting, she looked at the bars again, down the other length, giving a light nod before aide started wheeling her away. She started trying to protest, but the words failed her as she gave into the exhaustion and slumped backward.

Ten years later her drill sergeant barked for her squad to march sixty miles in seventy-four hours with a full pack of gear, riding on ahead of them, checking on their progress. At the tail end, her squad mates panting and unslinging their bags, the drill sergeant examined them all, narrowing his eyes as she sipped some water and saluted, her pack still strapped tightly. Covered in sweat and sunburn, burrs on her training uniform, dust and determination, she licked her cracked lips, cocked her head and asked if the gym was available.

Two years later an RPG 7 exploded against a hummer in the dusty street twenty feet away, shrapnel slicing through her left shin, ankle and foot. Her captain's skull lay in the sand behind her, thrown off from the force of the explosion. Her platoon rushed to keep her still, to call the medics, to surround her and get the captain's dog-tags. She grit her teeth at the cauterizing to stop the bleeding, then barked orders as the chain of command restructured with the one link now removed. She gripped the car the Humvee had passed, the wreckage that had shielded most of her body, pulling herself up, slumping against it, pulling out her scope and shouting to her team's sniper before starting to slide down the car, vision going dark and blurring. A single shot rang out and a shape in one of the upper windows of a building across the way started tumbling through the air toward the ground. She chuckled, nodding and trying to tell her sniper a joke before she passed out.

Eleven months later, she pulled the straps on her prosthetic tightly, taking in a sharp breath, rising out of bed and walking into the kitchen of her apartment. Teagan opened her fridge, pulling out six bottles of water and put them in her fanny pack, strapping it on. Then she took a knife from a drawer and a lemon from the table. Cutting out a wedge, she put the lemon into the fridge in a bag, taking the wedge with her as she went outside, a hand shielding her eyes as she looked out the rising sun, locking the door behind her. She checked her watch, smiling, checking her map for the sixth time that week, then started walking, then jogging toward the marathon sign-up booths down by the bay. As she went, she put the wedge in her mouth, suckling, lips puckering, the edges of her mouth curling.

Description
Teagan wailed loudly as the small of her head crashed against the table leg, rocking in place, rubbing her wispy hair and scalp, her parents running over to pick her up and rock her shushing her softly as they checked for bruising. Their freckled baby quieted, sniffling through bubbles of snot in her father's arms while her mother scowled marching back to the nursery, shouting out her frustrations at her husband, certain he had failed to lock the crib. He followed after, his daughter reaching out for something on the table and crying as he started taking her away from it, squirming in his grasp. Confused, he looked back at the table, looking to see what she had been wanting, baffled as he only saw a lemon wedge next to his tea. His wife returned as he picked it up, staring at it, then almost dropped it as she pulled him toward the nursery. The hand drifted closer to Teagan and she snatched the wedge as the family entered the baby's former prison. Shaking her head, Teagan's mother gestured to the crib and the baby fence. The first, circumvented by piling her stuffed animals in a corner, the second by stepping onto her push car, climbing over the edge of both. The wife started apologizing, then cried out in shock, startling her husband, but Teagan merely continued to suckle on the lemon wedge, lips puckered, yet holding it to her face while in her father's arms.

Seven years later, Teagan fell onto the asphalt for the last time trying to catch up to the other children, her pigeon-toed legs tripping over one another, her hands scraping up and bleeding for the twelfth time that month. Her parents took her in for a consult and arranged corrective surgery. All the while the doctors spoke with her parents on the way to the surgical room she listened, trying to stay awake, curious, but the drugs in the grape juice they had given her finally wore her down. She awoke hours later with two casts on in a hospital room. Two hours later she almost fell out of the bed trying to reach the television remote herself rather than pressing the button to call for the nurse.

Tears of sharp pain streamed down her cheeks a month and a half later as she grit her teeth, gripping the parallel bars in the rehab center, trying to pull herself up to a standing position and walk. She stumbled and almost collapsed, a hand the small of her back to help her up gingerly, asking if she wanted to rest and try again. Shaking her hand she leaning on her left leg, trying to pull herself up again. And again. And again. Slowly she crept forward on the bars, trying to pull herself up and forward, the aide finally pulling the wheelchair around to the other side as she shuddered, growling lightly and grimacing, standing, covered in sweat, then collapsed into the seat of the wheelchair. Panting, she looked at the bars again, down the other length, giving a light nod before aide started wheeling her away. She started trying to protest, but the words failed her as she gave into the exhaustion and slumped backward.

Ten years later her drill sergeant barked for her squad to march sixty miles in seventy-four hours with a full pack of gear, riding on ahead of them, checking on their progress. At the tail end, her squad mates panting and unslinging their bags, the drill sergeant examined them all, narrowing his eyes as she sipped some water and saluted, her pack still strapped tightly. Covered in sweat and sunburn, burrs on her training uniform, dust and determination, she licked her cracked lips, cocked her head and asked if the gym was available.

Two years later an RPG 7 exploded against a hummer in the dusty street twenty feet away, shrapnel slicing through her left shin, ankle and foot. Her captain's skull lay in the sand behind her, thrown off from the force of the explosion. Her platoon rushed to keep her still, to call the medics, to surround her and get the captain's dog-tags. She grit her teeth at the cauterizing to stop the bleeding, then barked orders as the chain of command restructured with the one link now removed. She gripped the car the Humvee had passed, the wreckage that had shielded most of her body, pulling herself up, slumping against it, pulling out her scope and shouting to her team's sniper before starting to slide down the car, vision going dark and blurring. A single shot rang out and a shape in one of the upper windows of a building across the way started tumbling through the air toward the ground. She chuckled, nodding and trying to tell her sniper a joke before she passed out.

Eleven months later, she pulled the straps on her prosthetic tightly, taking in a sharp breath, rising out of bed and walking into the kitchen of her apartment. Teagan opened her fridge, pulling out six bottles of water and put them in her fanny pack, strapping it on. Then she took a knife from a drawer and a lemon from the table. Cutting out a wedge, she put the lemon into the fridge in a bag, taking the wedge with her as she went outside, a hand shielding her eyes as she looked out the rising sun, locking the door behind her. She checked her watch, smiling, checking her map for the sixth time that week, then started walking, then jogging toward the marathon sign-up booths down by the bay. As she went, she put the wedge in her mouth, suckling, lips puckering, the edges of her mouth curling.