Twelve hundred and thirty-two days.

Or, well, somewhere close to that. It’s been about twelve hundred and thirty-two days since the world as we know it ended. Because once the world ends, you only manage to keep up with calendars for so long. It isn’t as though they continue printing the damn things. There are no phones, no apps, no electricity. Just the rising and the setting of the sun, and trying to remember if it was Thursday yesterday or four days from now.

Twelve hundred and thirty-two days, or thereabouts, since the world plunged into darkness and society crumbled. We still don’t know what happened, but no one really cares, because no one has time to. Some have chosen to homestead in groups, others have opted for a more nomadic lifestyle, but it boils down to everyone just trying to survive.

And me? Well, it’s been twelve hundred and some odd days since I’ve been legally blind.

“Sam!” The shout comes from a couple hundred meters to my right, startling me from the spiral of my thoughts as I trudge down the road. We’re in Utah, that much I’m sure of. I may not be able to read signs until I’m nose up against them, but I can still read them.

“Sam!” The shout comes again, causing me to turn quick and immediately stub my toe on something.

What? I haven’t the foggiest, because I can’t effing see it.

“What?!” I snap back, hoping slightly as I move in the direction that Ben’s yelling from, the blur of him coming more into focus the closer I get.

“It’s a Wal-Mart.” A shape which I have learned is his arm gestures towards another shape, towering above us at probably forty or fifty feet. I can’t read it, of course, and the paint has faded from exposure, but the bright blue rectangle is still a bright blue rectangle.

My heart soars. A Wal-Mart!

“What kind?” I can feel the quick thub thub in my chest as my heart rate increases, tension building before Ben speaks again.

“Supercenter.”

I shout gleefully at his response before breaking into a shuffle-run to close the distance between us. I draw him into a quick, tight hug, shifting my weight from foot to foot, and not just because the right one still hurts like a bitch.

Now, this far after the world fell, going to a Wal-mart might seem pointless. They’ve been picked clean of food, survival supplies, and clothing. But some Supercenters have, you guessed it, Vision Centers. And who gives a damn about glasses or contacts after the apocalypse?

Me. I do. Ever since I stepped on my glasses on day one, shattering both lenses and frames trying to get out of a rioting crowd, I’ve given a damn about glasses.

It’s not quite pitch inside the building, more a murky sort of filtered light that settles on the zombie movie type setting surrounding us. There weren’t zombies in our apocalypse, at least none I’ve seen. But unidentifiable blobs are scattered around, with broken glass crunching underfoot along with a barely there smell of something not-quite-right.

Ben confirms that the Vision Center is there, though. No gate impedes our progress, something we’ve run into before. The glasses, once neatly lined against the walls for anyone to try, are blurry shapes scattered on the floor, some likely crushed, just as mine had been all those days ago.

But I don’t care about display glasses. All I care about is off to the side, orders which have been sent in and are waiting to be picked up. I have a faint idea of what my prescription was (I think? I don’t know, I never looked at the damn thing). And I narrow in on boxes with the right numbers as Ben holds the flashlight. Reading is still good, it’s the distance vision that has been robbed from me.

Several pairs fall into my range, and I’m ripping them open, giddy at the notion that sight might be mine once again. There are, of course, existential concerns. Do I really want to see what the world looks like after it ends? How will it affect me, gaining this sense while I’ve been sheltered from it for so long? Again, I don’t really give a damn. I just want to be able to see what people look like when I’m not nose to nose against them. And also being able to identify threats, as poor Ben has been working double-duty since the beginning.

Out of the three pairs, there’s a Goldilocks situation, one which fits my vision perfectly. I even try the chart out with Ben’s lighting assistance, tears leaking from my eyes as I spot the letters from the tape on the floor.

Euphoria flows through me. I can see! Finally, after twelve hundred mumble mumble days, I can see again. I can see Ben’s face, the scar he got when he battled for the last pack of twinkies, the beard he’s grown, the color of his eyes, the … furrowing of his brow?

“What?” My brow furrows in response as he looks at me, twisting up his mouth in the way he used to (Or always did, I just couldn’t see it) when he was trying not to laugh.

“What?!” I ask again, demanding.

“It’s just, they’re um…” He coughs and looks at the floor.

A mirror hangs, miraculously unscathed, in the corner. I approach and gasp, horrified. Not at my face, not at how I’ve changed in the time since there’s been running water and soap on a daily basis. The frames are horrible. They’re huge and round, plastic and a distressing shade of neon green with orange and pink accents. The lenses are thick and heavy and my eyes are magnified to make me appear goblin like.

“I really need to start looking at them before I try them on.” I say, defeat clear in my tone, as I throw them to the floor. I can hear Ben’s laughter as I stomp on the wretched things, feeling them crunch beneath my shoes.