Clara rested both hands on the wooden edge of the switchboard shelf.
To anyone else, the Western Electric 555 PBX board looked like an antique museum piece. It had dark mahogany side panels, rows of tarnished copper jacks, and weighted fabric patch cords that hung down like heavy braids.
To Clara, it was a living acoustic instrument.
Ever since she woke up from the six-month coma at St. Jude’s Hospital, sounds were no longer just vibrations in the air. Sounds had weight, color, and temperature.
The steady baseline hum from the transformer in the basement tasted like cold iron. The rain hitting the airlock glass outside looked like needles of silver light.
And the three amber supervisory lamps flashing in the alcove felt like rhythmic taps against the back of her skull.
TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK-TICK.
“Here are the green cords, Clara,” Julian said, placing three heavy braided cords onto the shelf beside her fingers.
