WWW: Wake by Robert J. Sawyer

came to her that seemed applicable: the colors contrasted with each other, clashed even.

    Colors. And lines. Lines defining—shapes!

    Again, concepts she knew but had never visualized: perpendicular lines, parallel lines that—God!—converged at infinity.

    Her heart was going to burst. She was seeing!

    But what was she seeing? Lines. Colors. Shapes, at least as created by intersecting lines, although she still didn’t know what shapes. She’d read about this in preparation for receiving Kuroda’s equipment: people gaining sight knew what squares and triangles were conceptually, and by touch, but didn’t initially recognize them when they actually saw them.

    She was still in the padded chair and, despite all the visual disorientation, had no trouble swinging it to face the window. Her perspective shifted, and she could feel the breeze on her face again, and smell that one of her neighbors was using a fireplace. She knew that the window frame was rectangular, knew that it was divided into a lower and upper square by a crosspiece. Surely she would recognize those simple shapes as she looked at them, and—

    But no. No. What she was seeing now was a—what words to use?—a radial pattern, three lines of different colors converging on a single point.

    She got up from the chair, moved to the window, and stood before it, grasping one side of the frame in each hand. And then she stared ahead, forcing her concentration onto what must be in front of her. She knew she should be seeing lines perpendicular to the floor and others parallel to it. She knew the frame was twice as tall as the crosspiece.

    But what she saw bore no relationship—none!—to what she expected. Instead of anything that resembled the window frame, she was still seeing the radial lines stretching away, and—

    Strange. When she moved her head, the view did change, as if she were now looking somewhere else. The center point of all the intersecting lines was now off to one side, and—oh, my!—another such grouping was coming into view on the other side, but the lines didn’t seem to correspond to anything in her bedroom.

    But wait! It was night now. Yes, the room lights had doubtless been on when her father had been here, but he was serious about saving electricity, forever complaining that Caitlin’s mom had left lights on in the kitchen or bathroom—something, fortunately, she never had to worry about being blamed for. He surely would have turned the lights off when he left. (Bashira had said it was creepy that Caitlin’s dad did that, but, really, it was sensible
    ... wasn’t it?) She couldn’t remember hearing the tiny sound of the switch when he left, but he must have used it—and so the room must be dark now, and what she was seeing were just (again a concept she had never experienced) shadows, or something like that.

    She turned, her strange view wheeling as she did so. It was disconcerting and disorienting; she’d crossed this room hundreds of times, but she was having trouble walking because of the distraction. Still, the room wasn’t that big, and it took only seconds to find the light switch. It was pointing down, but she wasn’t sure if that was the position for on or off. She moved it up, and—

    Nothing. No change. No new flash of light—nor any dimming of what she was already seeing.

    And then she was hit by a thought that should have already occurred to her. Vision was supposed to be at the user’s discretion; surely she could shut all this out just by closing her eyes, and—

    And nothing.

    No difference. The lights, the lines, the colors were all still there. Her heart fell. Whatever she was seeing had no relation to external reality; no wonder she hadn’t been able to recognize the window frame. She opened and closed her eyes a couple more times, just to be sure, and flicked the room light on and off (or perhaps off and on!) a few more times, as well.

    Caitlin slowly made her way back to her bed and sat on its