It's four o'clock in the afternoon and sunny, which is a bad combination for Ronald Broadnax. Numerous grand old trees are on the campus of the Governor Morehead School for the blind, and at the end of a sunny day, the shadows on the ground become many and deep.

Overcast days are better for him because there are no shadows. Sunlight has its virtues, but it brings a malignant partner with it. To Broadnax, a shadow is a treacherous pool of darkness that might hide an impediment to his travel. Anything in the shadow -- curb, hole, tree root -- is hidden from his view.

Broadnax, for 30 years an engineer at IBM, can see almost nothing. A hereditary disease, retinitis pigmentosa, took root about 10 years ago and has stealthily eroded his eyesight. To learn to cope with his vision loss, Broadnax attends classes at the N.C. Rehabilitation Center for the Blind, on the Morehead campus. Among the things he has learned -- perhaps the most important thing -- is how to make his way through the world.

On this sunny day, as he does every afternoon while at the center, he puts his lessons into practice.

When it's time to go home to Durham, Broadnax leaves the center's lobby shortly after 4 p.m. He carries the cane he has learned to use at the center, but it's folded with an elastic band around it. He explains that he always carries the cane but uses it only in specific situations. One recent day, Broadnax had to cross a busy street. A bus was stopped next to the curb, and as Broadnax passed in front of it, he poked his cane ahead of him in the hope that cars passing the stopped bus would see it, recognize that it belonged to a blind person and would themselves stop.

Think about it: Would you step out into traffic with your eyes closed? Talk about a test of nerves.

Broadnax walks to the sidewalk in front of the women's dormitory, which is where he waits for a Triangle Transit Authority minibus. The vehicle will stop near the main administration building, about 150 yards across a wide lawn. Broadnax won't see the bus, but he'll recognize the sound of its engine and backup alarm. Broadnax says his hearing is exceptional. He advises any would-be muggers to rob him silently. Otherwise, he'll pick them out of a voice lineup.

He could wait for the bus closer to the stop, but prefers this spot. Nodding toward the handful of people on the dorm porch, Broadnax explains: "Typically, I'm just here running my mouth, socializing."

When the bus arrives, Broadnax sets off -- but then stops just a few steps away. There's a low spot on the sidewalk where mud collected after a recent rain. It looks like a shadow on the ground, and for several long seconds, Broadnax ponders it. Not quite figuring out what it is, but deciding it's no hazard, he gingerly steps around it and continues toward the bus.

He's greeted by the driver. One other passenger is in the six-person van, an elderly woman with a cane of her own. Broadnax carefully negotiates the step up into the vehicle, then settles into the rear seat.

Then he talks a bit.

Is he angry about his failing sight?

"I won't call it angry. You go through a period of insufficiency, when you can't do for yourself. To lose all of that because of your sight, you get a little upset. But then you realize it could be worse. In my case, it could be lights out." That phrase -- "lights out" -- is Broadnax's way of referring to total blindness.

Has he benefited from the center's help?

"I think so. For me, if nothing else, it's given me determination. It's taken away a lot of fears I had about being visually impaired. The atmosphere is very good. It's not high pressure, but they do give you the incentive to improve your skills."

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