Nighttime was a drone of white noise surrounding me like the soft grip of a warm blanket. It was blissfully muted, the soft rumble of the world outside, the distant echoes of a lazy city, even the buzz of the power lines and the wires in the walls were dimmed to a dull grey in the bubble of sound projected by the globe hanging from the ceiling fan.

  It was necessary for me, if I wanted the recovery granted by resting without in constant aggravation. The doctors said that I had hypersensitivity, or impaired habituation, depending on what specialist we were consulting. Either way noises were bad. So were bright lights and smells, but this device could only ward off sounds.

  I had specially customized most of my room, by then, making good use of the 3-d printer I’d convinced my caregivers to invest in. The return was significant, more than twice their original investment in the first month of selling little trinkets and toys. The school’s store welcomed any student crafters to sell, and I turned a decent profit there.

  My own environment it took a special doorguard, insulation, deeply tinted windows, and a custom air intake-exhaust system. As the light began to gleam through the violet frosted layer of my window, I found myself being immensely thankful for these reasonable accommodations I’d designed. The build was out on the internet, freely available, and every so often I got a little ping that someone downloaded it.

  It was more than I was afforded by the state’s insurance program, which had offered me earmuffs and cushion to place against the foot of my door, sufficient to block the sounds of the house. It might have worked, too, if the house had been the problem.

  My caregivers made very little fuss on a day to day basis, their activities within the house generally quiet and self-contained. Liara had several crafts and recreations, including the assembly of decorative wrist and neck adornments, steel welding, puzzles, and electronic gaming. Brendan helped her with steel shaping in the workshop in the basement, read books about homesteading and herbalism, and played tabletop games with friends.

  None of their activities intruded into my soundscape, even the abrasive grinder they used for shaping steel or the groups that gathered to play games at the end of the weeks, celebrating another cycle of labor completed. From the third floor of the house, I could tolerate the sounds from the first, but the buzz of electric wires was a constant threat to my peace, a swarm of nagging insects seeking to consume my attention and render me without utility.

  The soft rush of sound from the orb above quieted, and the noise of the world flooded into the vacuum it left, pushing back through the fuzzy vibrations to reach me, but before they could truly break through I plucked a pair of earbuds from the bedside chest of drawers and slid them into my ears. The world outside quieted, then reached a gentle equilibrium that allowed me to hear everything at a reasonable volume.

  I rose from bed with little delay, swiftly dressing from my night layer into a simple outfit for the day, long pants made of a dense flame-retardant weave with extra pockets, a short-sleeved shirt covered with a button-down layer with sleeves rolled up to my elbows, boots laced up to mid-shin, and a pair of glasses that tinted against the glare of the sun as my shaded window layers opened and revealed the light of day outside my room.

  It was a brief walk to school, just a few kilometers through the suburban landscape of similar structures and short-cropped, non-native flora blanketing the ground and consuming water and labor hours while producing a soft carpet for bare-feet to enjoy. There was a shortcut through a patch of forested land behind the school, a kilometer of coniferous trees with a stream running through and a small, decorative bridge.

  I enjoyed the little piece of natural life, the island of old growth preserved through the expanse of human construction, a space that offered quiet clarity, the chaos of unplanned proliferation contrasting the structured routine of haphazard residential settlements. By the time I’d lived in the city for a year I had begun to attend planning board meetings to argue for the preservation of the park.

  In the forested area I was able to reduce the noise-cancelling properties of my earbuds, opening myself to the flutter and chirp of birds, the scratch of rodents seeking food in the underbrush, the soft creak of trees, the rush of wind through branches and needles. In the heart of this little forest, I found many peaceful moments.

  On the outer edge my earbuds automatically adjusted to the gathering noise of the student body, buses unloading and voices passing back and forth the small concerns of daily business between young adolescents. By focusing on any specific person I could tune my hearing to pick up their words, and there were keywords, like my name or any indicator of threat, that would automatically open me up to begin listening.

  It felt like most other days, moving through crowds to reach a settled destination, first stopping past my locker to leave my bag and take supplies for the first half of the day, a notebook and a metal bottle containing a nutrient drink, already half-gone. By the time I reached my first classroom most other students were already seated and chatting, and my presence, while initially interrupting some of them, went largely unnoticed.

  It was an awkward social dynamic, my presence in these rooms. I was several years younger than anyone else, accelerated to their grade by the achievements of my testing scores, and I shared very little practical life experience with any of them. I did not try to engage my fellow students in conversation, I simply took my seat and began to write in my notebook.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  When I’d first come to school other students had objected to my being allowed to wear earbuds in class, expressing injustice at the fact that they were not allowed to do the same, to listen to music or whatever it was they wished to distract themselves with, but this was just another accommodation for my sensitivities and their objections were largely ignored. Several teachers had to be educated on the legal expectations of managing children with disabilities.

  I had denied that I would listen to music during class, but it was a lie. I used it as a background while I feigned taking notes on the subject matter. Most subjects taught were inconsequential to my goals, but I knew I would need to perform adequately to be allowed to continue at this advanced level, so I provided passable answers to any questions I was asked.

  This first class was language composition, learning about the principles of research essays and the legal requirements of citation. It was simple enough to automate the process, I’d even considered releasing a program that would make the rules easily accessible, but I held onto a concern that it could be abused to create disinformation that would pass general scrutiny. The presence of misleading data was already a growing problem, and I didn’t want to contribute to it.

  I’d made the argument to my caregivers that I could self-educate faster and more effectively than participating in public school, but they had effectively countered that I would benefit from spending time with peers, to develop interpersonal skills and support a collective learning environment. It was difficult to dispute, given the difficulties I’d encountered so far engaging with other students.

  “When you write a conclusion, it should contain a summary of all the points you’ve made throughout your paper, and provide a concise statement of what you believe it all means. It’s important to answer the question, ‘So what?’. Why should your reader care about what you’re saying?” The instructor, an older woman who had taught at the school for longer than any student there had been alive, spoke with passion about a subject most considered dull. I understood that the proliferation of knowledge was the only thing that really changed the future of the world

  “Make it personal.”

  Eyes turned toward me. I was still drawing in my notebook, my glasses mostly clear with only a slight tint for the fluorescent bulbs that pulsed overhead, too fast for most to see. On the page before me was a series of seemingly disconnected shapes with little apparent purpose.

  “Gil, you wanted to add something?” The instructor was focused on me. Her expression, when I looked up, suggested curiosity and apprehension. I estimated that she was unsure how much to engage with me, after two months spent silent in her classroom, only answering questions when directly asked. I felt a moment of apprehension myself.

  “…People most easily care about things that directly affect them. In order for them to pay attention to a conclusion, the topic must be made personal, so that they both experience a sense of immediacy to the subject matter and feel that they have some control over the impact.”

  It was more than I’d spoken in any class that I was in, save for my physical sciences course. It felt like the truth that the teacher needed to hear, for her lesson. Information was not enough on its own to affect people.

  “That’s… an interesting point. Thank you.” Uncertainty, but it seemed like the instructor felt my contributions were helpful. There was an element of her reaction that I couldn’t interpret, and the readout on my heads-up display proposed several options in alignment with the research I had conducted to that point on human expression. Indeterminate. I returned to my sketches, and the instructor returned to the lesson.

  The music in my earbuds rose back to an enjoyable level, words written to speak to those who wished to feel like the injustice of their experience was a meaningful struggle in the grander scope of the world.

  Come out

  Drop the bomb

  End the fa?ade

  Arbitrary conflict

  With your brothers abroad

  Serves the meddling minds

  Of the unseen hands

  Who would spill your blood

  For avaricious demands

  I had already completed the assignments for the course, crafted the writing projects required to achieve a passable grade with the help of my writing program, and the rest of my time could be easily spent on my own projects, on devices that could make a more tangible impact on the world. There were problems out there that would not be solved by even the most accurate, well-crafted research papers.

  Student filed out of class when the time came to transition, and I slid into the stream without interaction. It wasn’t necessary, no matter how much my caregivers, my therapist, and the school’s counselor encouraged me to try. It would be an exhausting use of my energy, and I could think of a thousand other things to use it for before trying to forge connections that would be quickly forgotten.

  A harsh jostle rolled through me, a body bouncing off me in the hall, shoved by another student in some battle for social status, and I staggered into the wall before I could capture my inertia. I looked back, and several sets of eyes were watching to see what would happen. The boy that had collided with me was struggling to regain his stature, and the other boy that seemed to be the aggressor was standing tall, waiting for a reaction.

  I could have left. I probably should have left. I should have just walked away and left the little conflict to play out. Social standing was a critical piece of the students’ experience, forging relationships and defining group hierarchies that were practice for the conflict of the adult world. I should have left it to play out.

  I fed my hand through the crook of the smaller boy’s arm, helping him steady and drawing him closer. I recognized him from another class I was in, an art class currently working on color theory. He liked drawing animals, often in anthropomorphic form. His name was Devon.

  “Devon? Are you busy right now? I was hoping to go over the use of shading in creating three-dimensional impressions in drawn format.”

  He was stunned by the sudden transition in topics, his eyes flashing between me and the aggressor, a taller boy with a group of students standing behind his intentions. I ignored the aggressor entirely, keeping my eyes on Devon’s confused and frustrated expression. Wordless, he nodded, and followed me away from the encounter under the glare of the aggressor’s disappointed gaze.