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bathroom door. Nearly a decade of service in the United States Marine Corps had transformed my body from a skinny, awkward teen to the finely muscled woman who stared back at me. I observed the teenage gap between my thighs and settled my palms flat against the swimmer-v on my lower torso that I had maintained long after my high school swim team years. I twisted to the side to regard my profile. My hips were narrow, too boyish I thought, but small, upturned breasts that sat high on my chest in proportion to the rest of my body were evidence of my femininity.
    I turned off the bathtub faucet when I deemed the level high enough. First one foot and then the other, as I gingerly sat down in water just a few degrees too hot. My body would acclimate, and it wouldn’t be long until the water became too cool. I sat up in the tub, thighs splayed apart, water dripping from my fingertips. Humid air curled the hair at my temples and nape of my neck. I experimentally plugged up the silver faucet with my big toe, stemming the steady drip of the spigot.
    The heat of the water penetrated my bones, alleviating the dull ache that the long bike ride had produced. I pushed damp tendrils that had worked their way free from my bun out of my eyes and ran my hand over my face. Eight years in the Marines and another year with the city of Minneapolis police department, but now I was banished to a bed and breakfast in northern Minnesota. In the morning, I would track down Chief Hart and get settled in my new apartment. I didn’t know what to expect of my new responsibilities on the Embarrass police force, but anything had to be better than the paper pushing I’d been demoted to in the Twin Cities.
    My fingers started to prune and the water had become too cool for comfort. I emerged from the bathtub, feeling moderately refreshed. After toweling my body dry, I checked my cell phone, which I’d left to recharge outside of the bathroom. I had a bevy of text messages from my friends, so wrote them each back a brief message to let them know I’d arrived at the northern outpost in one piece.
    I pulled a pair of running shorts and an olive green T-shirt with the word Marines screen-printed across the chest from my duffle bag. I slipped into the clean, but wrinkled clothes, and then between stiff bed sheets. In the military my rack had been about seventy percent the size of a twin bed, forcing me to sleep at the position of attention. Getting to sleep on even a double-sized mattress as a civilian felt like a luxury. As I curled up on my side and shoved my hands beneath the lone down pillow, I wished for a dreamless sleep. I knew it was too much to ask; sleep itself would have to suffice.
     
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    Afghanistan, 2012
     
    It’s July in Afghanistan. My fair, Scandinavian skin has taken a beating these past few years. I used to never leave the house without sunscreen on. Now it’s wasted space in my duffle bag. It’s a dry heat, like my grandparents explain to us how they can handle the plus-one hundred degree temperatures in their retirement home in Arizona. At least I don’t have to worry about trench foot or swamp ass in Afghanistan. It’s a small comfort when you’re driving down narrow streets, the buildings too tall on both sides and the places where snipers can perch too numerous. I’ve been at Quantico for the past few months, receiving training to be a communications officer. Then there were train-ups in the Middle East with port calls in Italy and in France. As a female Marine, the extra training is the only way I’ll ever see real action and get off the forward operating base.
    My second tour is as a member of Task Force Leatherneck in the Second Marine Expeditionary Brigade—Operation Strike of the Sword or Operation Khanjar— in the Helmand province in southern Afghanistan. Since 2001, Helmand has been considered to be a Taliban stronghold and one of the most dangerous provinces in the country. I’m just one of ten thousand