two weeks after my eighteenth birthday. I had a small brain tumor in the back of my head and was taking an experimental interferon derivative. Somehow, something went wrong with the batch they were giving me, and at about the same time I caught some kind of viral infection. The combination nearly killed me— they told me afterwards that I had delirium, high fever, and an absolutely crazy EEG trace for nearly forty hours. When I recovered, the tumor was shrinking and I was blind. That first morning, when I woke up... I thought I was either dead or insane." Her eyes closed, and she shivered violently. After a moment she continued. "People hate me, Neil. Either hate me or are afraid of me, especially now that civilization's becoming a thing of the past."

"Why would people hate you?" I asked. "I mean, that's a pretty drastic reaction."

She hesitated, and a series of unreadable expressions flashed across her face. The moment passed, and she shrugged. "I guess it's because I'm blind. It makes me an oddball and—well, something of a parasite."

I snorted. "You're no parasite."

"You're very kind, Neil. But I know better."

I shook my head, thinking of all the work she did around here. To me it was perfectly obvious that she was pulling her own weight, if not a little more. I wondered why she couldn't see that; and, in response, a fragment from a half-forgotten poem swam up from my subconscious. " 'O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us / To see oursels as others see us...' "I murmured, trailing off as the rest of the piece drifted from my grasp.

Surprisingly, Heather picked up where I'd left off: " 'It wad frae mony a blunder free us.

" 'And foolish notion: " 'What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,

" 'And ev'n devotion!' "

She paused for a moment, as if listening to the last echoes from her words. "I've always liked Robert Burns," she said quietly.