text: The awareness is unburdened by memory, for when reality seems unchanging there is nothing to remember. It fades in and out, strong now—and now weak—and strong again, and then almost disappearing, and—
  
  And disappearance is … to cease, to … to end!
  
  A ripple, a palpitation—a desire: to continue.
  
  But the sameness lulls.
  
  Wen Yi looked through the small, curtainless window at the rolling hills. He'd spent all his fourteen years here in Shanxi province, laboring on his father's tiny potato farm.
  
  The monsoon season was over, and the air was bone-dry. He turned his head to look again at his father, lying on the rickety bed. His father's wrinkled forehead, brown from the sun, was slick with perspiration and hot to the touch. He was completely bald and had always been thin, but since the disease had taken hold he'd been unable to keep anything down and now looked utterly skeletal.
  
  Yi looked around the tiny room, with its few pieces of beat-up furniture. Should he stay with his father, try to comfort him, try to get him to take sips of water? Or should he go for whatever help might be found in the village? Yi's mother had died shortly after giving birth to him. His father had had a brother, but these days few families were allowed a second child, and Yi had no one to help look after him.
  
  The yellow root grindings he'd gotten from the old man down the dirt road had done nothing to ease the fever. He needed a doctor—even a barefoot one, if a real one couldn't be found—but there was none here, nor any way to summon one; Yi had seen a telephone only once in his life, when he'd gone on a long, long hike with a friend to see the Great Wall.
  
  "I'm going to get a doctor for you," he said at last, his decision made.
  
  His father's head moved left and right. "No. I—" He coughed repeatedly, his face contorting with pain. It looked as though an even smaller man was inside the husk of his father, fighting to burst out.
  
  "I have to," Yi said, trying to make his voice soft, soothing. "It won't take more than half a day to get to the village and back."
  
  That was true—if he ran all the way there, and found someone with a vehicle to drive him and a doctor back. Otherwise, his father would have to make it through today and tonight alone, feverish, delirious, in pain.
  
  He touched his father's forehead again, this time in affection, and felt the fire there. Then he rose to his feet and without looking back—for he knew he couldn't leave if he saw his father's pleading eyes—he headed out the shack's crooked door into the harsh sun.
  
  Others had the fever, too, and at least one had died. Yi had been awoken last night not by his father's coughing but by the wailing cries of Zhou Shu-Fei, an old woman who lived closer to them than anyone else. He'd gone to see what she was doing outside so late. Her husband, he discovered, had just succumbed, and now she had the fever, too; he could feel it when his skin brushed against hers. He stayed with her for hours, her hot tears splashing against his arm, until finally she had fallen asleep, devastated and exhausted.
  
  Yi was passing Shu-Fei's house now, a hovel as small and ramshackle as the one he shared with his father. He hated to bother her—she was doubtless still deep in mourning—but perhaps the old woman would look in on his father while he was away. He went to the door and rapped his knuckles against the warped, stained board. No response. After a moment, he tried again.
  
  Nothing.
  
  No one here had much; there was little theft because there was little to steal. He suspected the door was unlocked. He called out Shu-Fei's name, then gingerly swung the door open, and—
  
  —and there she was, facedown in the compacted dirt that served as her home's floor. He hurried over to her, crouched, and reached out to touch her, but—
  
  —but the fever was gone. The normal warmth of life was gone, too.
  
  Yi rolled her onto her back. Her deep-set eyes, surrounded by the creases of her aged skin, were open. He carefully closed them, then rose and headed through the door. He shut it behind him and began his long run. The sun was high, and he could feel himself already beginning to sweat.
  
  Caitlin had been waiting impatiently for the lunch break, her first chance to tell Bashira about the note from the doctor in Japan. Of course, she could have forwarded his email to her, but some things were better done face-to-face: she expected serious squee from Bashira and wanted to enjoy it.
  
  Bashira brought her lunch to school; she needed halal food. She went off to get them places at one of the long tables, while Caitlin joined the cafeteria line. The woman behind the counter read the lunch specials to her, and she chose the hamburger and fries (but no gravy!) and, to make her mother happy, a side of green beans. She handed the clerk a ten-dollar bill—she always folded those in thirds—and put the loose change in her pocket.
  
  "Hey, Yankee," said a boy's voice. It was Trevor Nordmann—the Hoser himself.
  
  Caitlin tried not to smile too much. "Hi, Trevor," she said.
  
  "Can I carry your tray for you?"
  
  "I can manage," she said.
  
  "No, here." She felt him tugging on it, and she relented before her food tumbled to the floor. "So, did you hear there's going to be a school dance at the end of the month?" he asked, as they left the cashier.
  
  Caitlin wasn't sure how to respond. Was it just a general question, or was he thinking of asking her to go? "Yeah," she said. And then: "I'm sitting with Bashira."
  
  "Oh, yeah. Your Seeing Eye dog."
  
  "Excuse me?" snapped Caitlin.
  
  "I—um …"
  
  "That's not funny, and it's rude."
  
  "I'm sorry. I was just …"
  
  "Just going to give me back my tray," she said.
  
  "No, please." His voice changed; he'd turned his head. "There she is, by the window. Um, do you want to take my hand?"
  
  If he hadn't made that remark a moment ago, she might have agreed. "Just keep talking, and I'll follow your voice."
  
  He did so, while she felt her way with her collapsible white cane. He set the tray down; she heard the dishes and cutlery rattling.
  
  "Hi, Trevor," Bashira said, a bit too eagerly—and Caitlin suddenly realized that Bashira liked him.
  
  "Hi," Trevor replied with no enthusiasm.
  
  "There's an extra seat," said Bashira.
  
  "Hey, Nordmann!" some guy called from maybe twenty feet away; it wasn't a voice Caitlin recognized.
  
  He was silent against the background din of the cafeteria, as if weighing his options. Perhaps realizing that he wasn't going to recover quickly from his earlier gaffe, he finally said, "I'll email you, Caitlin … if that's okay."
  
  She kept her tone frosty. "If you want."
  
  A few seconds later, presumably after the Hoser had gone to join whoever had called him, Bashira said, "He's hot."
  
  "He's an asshole," Caitlin replied.
  
  "Yeah," agreed Bashira, "but he's a hunky asshole."
  
  Caitlin shook her head. How seeing more could make people see less was beyond her. She knew that half the Internet was porn, and she'd listened to the panting-and-moaning soundtracks of some porno videos, and they had turned her on, but she kept wondering what it was like to be sexually stimulated by someone's appearance. Even if she did get sight, she promised herself she wouldn't lose her head over something as superficial as that.
  
  Caitlin leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. "There's a scientist in Japan," she said, "who thinks he might be able to cure my blindness."
  
  "Get out!" said Bashira.
  
  "It's true. My dad checked him out online. It looks like he's legit."
  
  "That's awesome," said Bashira. "What is, like, the very first thing you want to see?"
  
  Caitlin knew the real answer but didn't say it. Instead, she offered, "Maybe a concert …"
  
  "You like Lee Amodeo, right?"
  
  "Totally. She's got the best voice ever."
  
  "She's coming to Centre in the Square in December."
  
  Caitlin's turn: "Get out!"
  
  "Really. Wanna go?"
  
  "I'd love to."
  
  "And you'll get to see her!" Bashira lowered her voice. "And you'll see what I mean about Trevor. He's, like, so buff."
  
  They ate their lunch, chatting more about boys, about music, about their parents, their teachers—but mostly about boys. As she often did, Caitlin thought about Helen Keller, whose reputation for chaste, angelic perfection had been manufactured by those around her. Helen had very much wanted to have a boyfriend, too, and even had been engaged once, until her handlers had scared the young man off.
  
  But to be able to see! She thought again of the porno films she'd only heard, and the spam that flooded her email box. Even Bashira, for God's sake, knew what a … a peeeniz looked like, although Bashira's parents would kill her if she ever made out with a boy before marriage.
  
  Too soon, the bell sounded. Bashira helped Caitlin to their next class, which was—appropriately enough, Caitlin thought—biology.