I feel like I’m about to take a test I didn’t study for. One based entirely on luck. I should have told Olivia about my appointment; maybe she’d be here and we’d be talking through what happened. People do that in waiting rooms and exam rooms, right?

“Let’s see how things are doing.” Angela hands me the black plastic spoon and I put it in front of my eye. The lights flick off, and a giant black E is illuminated in front of me.

Yes. I can do this. But the letter doesn’t stay, it scrolls down, further and further, until it looks as if a newspaper is being held against the wall. I can tell there are letters there … I can see the white spaces, the blur of dark ink. I blink a few times and fidget in my chair, like shifting two centimeters to the right or left might make a difference. I open my eye as wide as I can, and then squint. My eyes probably just need a minute to adjust to the dark.

“Let’s try the next one.” The blurry black cluster disappears and is replaced by a slightly larger cloud of black. A tiny surge of hope starts to rise up in me. I can make out some peaks on this line.

“M … wait, no, N.” I shift again. “P. Or R…”

“Let’s see if the next one is better,” Angela says.

Shit. What am I at now? 20/30? 20/40? I squint at the bright white square on the wall and wet my lips. It’s suffocating in this room.

I try to focus. “Five—”

“It’s just letters, Aiden.”

Fuck.

“S. P. Or … R, maybe. Yeah, R. S, P, R…” The letters are right there. I can see them, make out the gaps, but I can’t focus on any of them. I dart my eye around to see if it helps. I read online that sometimes with retinal damage, focusing on something off to the side can help. I look toward the last letter, hoping it brings the first into focus, but it’s like trying to make out someone’s face in your peripheral vision. I can see that it’s there, I just can’t identify it.

“Let’s bump it up a little.” The screen scrolls again, and it might as well be my car up there, rolling away from me. Out of sight. “Can you read anything on this line?”

The letters are bigger now, more distinct. They’re not crisp, but I can definitely read them. I take a deep breath and start listing them off. “M. R. S.” Only three letters?

“Great job, Aiden. How about this line.” She clicks the button and the screen changes. And my stomach drops. It’s all blurry again. I stare at the screen, blinking and swallowing and shifting in my chair, until Angela finally turns the screen off.