Caer burns to dance. Not just any dancing, air dancing. Flying ballet. The first to be born with wings. Real wings.
White wings. Huge to help her pivot, swoop and stop within a feather’s distance of touching another dancer.
The other dancers’ wings come from surgeries and drugs. They suffer for their wings.
Her wings knitted to her shoulders, bone to bone, muscle to muscle. As integral to her as eyes or fingers.
A fearlessly imagined vision of a future world.