Barb nodded. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Thanks. I’ll leave instructions for rolling back to the old version of software, too, in case something goes wrong. As I say, the patch probably won’t work the first time, but my server will still record her eyePod’s output based on the patched code, so tomorrow while she’s at school, I’ll be able to go back and examine the datastream from tonight, see if the encoding has been improved at all, and then I can make any further tweaks that are required. But if we don’t get the first test done tonight, I’ll lose a whole day before I can refine it.”

“Sure, no problem.”

He gobbled the last bite of his sandwich. “Thank you.” He glanced at the clock on the microwave — he’d never get used to digital clocks that showed a.m. and p.m. instead of twenty-four-hour time. “I want to get an early start into Toronto this afternoon; I’m taking you at your word that it would be crazy to try to drive into downtown there in rush hour. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get that patch set up.”

Mr. Struys had started off today’s chemistry class by reading aloud from The Globe and Mail. The lab bench Caitlin shared with Bashira was halfway to the back of the room, but she could easily hear the rustling newsprint followed by his voice intoning, “‘Initial reports out of China’s Shanxi province had put the death toll at between 2,000 and 2,500 from the natural eruption of carbon dioxide gas there on September 20. Beijing is now admitting that as many as 5,000 people have died, and some unofficial estimates are putting the body count at double that.’“ He paused. “So, who did their homework over the weekend? What’s this news story reminiscent of?”

An interesting thing about being blind, Caitlin thought, was that you never knew how many people were putting up their hands. But either she was usually the only one or else Mr. Struys liked her, because he often called on her. She liked him, too. It pleased her to know his first name, which was Mike. She’d heard another teacher call him that; it seemed to be a popular choice here in Waterloo. After all the “Dr. Kuroda” and “Professor Decter” stuff at home, it was nice to hear a teacher slip up in front of students and call a colleague by his first name.

“Yes, Caitlin?” he said.

“Something similar happened in August 1986,” she said, having googled it yesterday. “There was an eruption of carbon dioxide from Lake Nyos in Cameroon, and it killed seventeen hundred people.”

“That’s right,” Mike — Mr. Struys! — said. “So today we’re going to do an experiment demonstrating carbon dioxide absorption. For that, we’ll need a pH indicator…”

Parent-teacher night was coming up. Caitlin was looking forward to hearing from her mom what her various teachers actually looked like; she found Bashira’s rude descriptions funny, but wasn’t sure how accurate they were. Teachers were always a bit intimidated by her mother. Caitlin remembered one back at the TSB saying she was the only person ever to ask him what his “theory of pedagogy” was.

Caitlin and Bashira got to work. Unfortunately, Caitlin couldn’t really be much help — the experiment involved seeing if a liquid changed color. She found herself getting bored, and also feeling a little sorry for herself because she couldn’t see the colors. Although the school didn’t have its own Wi-Fi hotspots, the free service that blanketed the city worked here; she’d discovered that on the night of the dance. And so, what the hell, she reached into her pocket and switched the eyePod over to duplex mode.

But—

Shit!

There was no websight! Yes, the eyePod had made the high-pitched beep, but she wasn’t seeing anything at all. She looked left and right, closed her eyes and opened them, but none of it made any difference. The Jagster feed was gone!

Try not to panic, girl. She took a deep breath. Maybe the eyePod’s battery was just running down, or maybe there was some connection difficulty here, for some reason. She counted off sixty seconds in her head, to give it a fair chance, but — nothing. Damn!

Frightened, she pushed the switch again, returning to simplex mode, and—

What the — ?

She saw lines crossing her field of vision, but—

But that shouldn’t happen when she wasn’t receiving Jagster data. Besides, these lines weren’t brilliantly colored. She found herself reaching her hand out toward one of them, and—

“Careful!” said Bashira. “You almost knocked over the retort stand.”

“Sorry,” Caitlin replied. But she kept reaching forward, reaching out for the line, and—

And it wasn’t a line. It was an edge — the edge of the lab bench she shared with Bashira! She ran her hand along its length and she could see something moving along the line.

God, yes! It had to be her hand, the first part of her body she had ever seen!

She couldn’t make out any details, just a featureless lump. But when she moved her hand to the left, the object in her vision moved to the left; when she slid her hand back, it slid in the same direction.

“Cait,” said Bashira, “what’s wrong?”

She opened her mouth to say something but couldn’t get the words out. There was another line touching the one she could see. She would have had no idea what it was, she felt sure, if she hadn’t earlier gotten some sort of visual bearings through her interaction with webspace. But her dad had said the brain had special neurons for detecting edges, and she guessed this other line, forming an angle with the first one, was the perpendicular edge, the short edge, of the lab bench. She ran her hand toward it, and — shit! — knocked a beaker off the desk. She heard it break as it hit the floor.

“Careful, people!” Mr. Struys called from the front of the room. “Oh, it’s you, Caitlin, um, ah…” He trailed off. She heard the sound of jingling glass as Bashira presumably picked up the pieces.

“Sorry,” Caitlin said, or, at least, she’d intended to say that, but only a small whisper came out. Her throat was suddenly dry. She gripped one edge of the table with her right hand and the adjacent edge with her left.

Footsteps; Mr. Struys approaching. “Caitlin, are you okay?”

She turned her head to face him, just the way her mother had taught her, and … and … and — “Oh, my God!”

“Not quite,” said Mr. Struys, and she could see what must be his mouth moving, see his face. “But I am assistant department head.”

She found herself reaching out toward him now, and her hand banged into his … chest, it felt like. “Sorry!”

He gripped her forearm, as if steadying her so she wouldn’t fall off her lab stool. “Caitlin, are you all right?”

“I can see you,” she said, so softly that Mr. Struys replied, “What?”

“I can see you,” she said, more loudly. She turned her head to the right and saw a bright shape. “What’s that?” she said.

“The window,” said Mr. Struys, his voice hushed.

“Cait, can you really see?” asked Bashira.

Caitlin turned toward the voice and saw her. About all she could make out was that her skin was — darker, she knew, from what she’d read — than Mr. Struys’s or what she could see of her own when she’d looked at her hand, and—

Brown! BrownGirl4! She now knew another color — and it was beautiful. “Yes, oh, yes,” Caitlin said softly.

“Caitlin,” said Mr. Struys, “how many fingers am I holding up?”

You didn’t choose to be a chemistry teacher, she supposed, without being an empiricist at heart yourself, but she couldn’t even make out his hand. “I don’t know. It’s all blurry but I can see you, and Bashira, and the window, and this desk, and, oh, my God, it’s wonderful!”

The whole classroom had gone dead silent, except for the sound of — what? Maybe the electric clock? All the other students had to be looking at her, she knew, and she imagined half of them had mouths agape, although she couldn’t make out that level of detail.