Owen blinked several times and focused on the E of the eye chart, sharpening the serifs. Then he fumbled a hand to his eye patch, but found a gauze bandage instead. The bed was broken and small. IV taped to the fold of his arm, saline bag on a rack. He looked around to a roomful of whitecoats, all with pens waiting for his reply. Now the woman asked him in German he only half comprehended: —Können Sie mir den ____________ auf der Tafel vorlesen? He was in Berlin. He remembered Berlin. But his throat caught at the déjà vu. These were the tests that followed his injury, before the enucleation, testing the eye that only caught light: Close your right eye, please. Can you read any of the letters? Even the top one? Which way is my hand moving? How about now? Tell me when the penlight is on. How about now? Is it on or off now? Then they asked him in French that ended in garbles: —Pouvez vous lire la première lettre ______? He was totally fucked if his right eye was damaged. He turned away from the chart to catch the window blinds trembling with the summer breeze.
What do You think about A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall?
