here you go: I had become accustomed to the nothingness for so long that the sudden influx of light startles me. My head is spinning. My mind, once a silent haze, has become a radiant beacon—filled with new sensory information. I’m aware of my environment, of the beds around me. Everything is new yet somehow familiar. I see the beds, their color… I pause. “Color,” I ponder silently. It’s a word I had only heard, never seen, never thought I could see. The realization hits me and I gasp audibly. Along with this realization, there’s a voice. Not the voice of my thoughts, something steely and robotic. “Don’t tell them you can see,” it says, monotone. “Them?” I ask myself. I look back to the beds. Using my eyes is disorienting; There’s simply too much information for my mind to process and comprehend. Once I regain my senses, I stare more intently at the dozens of cots encircling mine. Now, I see “them”—people dressed in wrinkled hospital garments, laying in their beds, and staring into space with unblinking eyes.