It was like a static hum, crisp air snapping beside the spots where he knew his ears were. He couldn’t describe it—it was so new, intangible—a feeling. The four senses, he could understand, but this one—this was a door that was kicked down, a shuttered window broken open until the blinding rays of sound shot in.

He couldn’t tell if it was nice sounding or not—it just was. Was it music? The words he had read in the books? The little dots, dashes, and lines in the hymnals?

In front of him, the doctor smiled at the boy’s golf-ball eyes and slack mouth. “Can you hear me, Harold?” he half-shouted. The words were foreign vibrations to Harold, abrading his eardrum and scattering his brain like ripples in a pond. Can you hear? Can you hear sounds? the doctor signed.

Harold nodded and grunted, then nearly fell on the floor, shocked by the sound of his own voice.

“My God,” said the doctor, taking off his glasses and scrubbing the tears away. “You’re a miracle, Harold Whittles.”