WWW: Wake (2 page)

I am made out of awesome, my ass, she thought, and then she spoke, her voice small, frightened. “I guess it couldn’t hurt to write him back.”

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, face down 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.

Focus. Concentration.

With effort, mustering both, differences are perceived, revealing the structure of reality, so that—

A shift, a reduction in sharpness, a diffusion of awareness, the perception lost, and—

No. Force it back! Concentrate harder. Observe reality, be aware of its parts.

But the details are minute, hard to make out. Easier just to ignore them, to relax, to ... fade ... and...

No, no. Don’t slip away. Hold on to the details! Concentrate.

* * * *

Quan Li had obtained privileged status for someone only thirty-five years old. He was not just a doctor but also a senior member of the Communist Party, and the size of his thirtieth-floor Beijing apartment reflected that.

He could list numerous letters after his name—degrees, fellowships—but the most important ones were the three that were never written down, only said, and then only by the few of his colleagues who spoke English: Li had his BTA; he’d Been To America, having studied at Johns Hopkins. When the phone in his long, narrow bedroom rang, his first thought, after glancing at the red LEDs on his clock, was that it must be some fool American calling. His US colleagues were notorious for forgetting about time zones.

He fumbled for the black handset and picked it up. “Hello?” he said in Mandarin.

“Li,” said a voice that quavered so much it made his name sound like two syllables.

“Cho?” He sat up in the wide, soft bed and reached for his glasses, sitting next to the copy of Yu Hua’s Xiong di he’d left splayed open on the oak night table. “What is it?”

“We’ve received some tissue samples from Shanxi province.”

He held the phone in the crook of his neck as he unfolded his glasses and put them on. “And?”

“And you better come down here.”

Li felt his stomach knotting. He was the senior epidemiologist in the Ministry of Health’s Department of Disease Control. Cho, his assistant despite being twenty years older than Li, wouldn’t be calling him at this time of night unless—

“So you’ve done initial tests?” He could hear sirens off in the distance, but, still waking up, couldn’t say whether they were coming from outside his window or over the phone.

“Yes, and it looks bad. The doctor who shipped the samples sent along a description of the symptoms. It’s H5N1 or something similar—and it kills more quickly than any strain we’ve seen before.”

Li’s heart was pounding as he looked over at the clock, which was now glowing with the digits 4:44—si, si, si: death, death, death. He averted his eyes and said, “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

* * * *

Dr. Kuroda had found Caitlin through an article in the journal Ophthalmology. She had an extremely rare condition, no doubt related to her blindness, called Tomasevic’s syndrome, which was marked by reversed pupil dilation: instead of contracting in bright light and expanding in dim light, her pupils did the opposite. Because of it, even though she had normal-looking brown eyes (or so she was told), she wore sunglasses to protect her retinas.

There are a hundred million rods in a human eye, and seven million cones, Kuroda’s email had said. The retina processes the signals from them, compressing the data by a ratio of more than 100:1 to travel along 1.2 million axons in the optic nerve. Kuroda felt that Caitlin having Tomasevic’s syndrome was a sign that the data was being misencoded by her retinas. Although her brain’s pretectal nucleus, which controlled pupil contraction, could glean some information from her retinal datastream (albeit getting it backward!), her primary visual cortex couldn’t make any sense of it.

Or, at least, that’s what he hoped was the case, since he’d developed a signal-processing device that he believed could correct the retinal coding errors. But if Caitlin’s optic nerves were damaged, or her visual cortex was stunted from lack of use, just doing that wouldn’t be enough.

And so Caitlin and her parents had learned the ins and outs of the Canadian health-care system. To assess the chances of success, Dr. Kuroda had wanted her to have MRI scans of specific parts of her brain (“the optic chiasma,”

“Brodmann area 17,” and a slew of other things she’d never known she had). But experimental procedures weren’t covered by the provincial health plan, and so no hospital would do the scans. Her mother had finally exploded, saying,

“Look, we don’t care what it costs, we’ll pay for it”—but that wasn’t the issue. Caitlin either needed the scans, in which case they were free; or she didn’t, in which case the public facilities couldn’t be used.

But there were a few private clinics, and that’s where they’d ended up going, getting the MRI images uploaded via secure FTP to Dr. Kuroda’s computer in Tokyo. That her dad was freely spending whatever it took was a sign that he loved her ... wasn’t it? God, she wished he would just say it!

Anyway, with time-zone differences, a response from Kuroda might come this evening or sometime overnight. Caitlin had adjusted her mail reader so that it would give a priority signal if a message came in from him; the only other person she currently had set up for that particular chirping was Trevor Nordmann, who had emailed her three times now. Despite his shortcomings, and that stupid thing he’d said, he did seem genuinely interested in Caitlin, and—