Chapter 4: The Bookkeeper

The sky had not yet fully brightened. A gray-white mist crawled along the ground, and the moss at the base of the courtyard wall was so damp it could be wrung out. Lin Chen was startled awake by the first frantic fluttering from the chicken coop. He opened his eyes and immediately reached out to the side. Xiaoman was still asleep, his breathing even, but his cheeks remained bloodless, like a faded New Year’s print, with an unnatural, dry flush on his cheekbones. Lin Jianguo was already gone from the kang. A rustling came from the main room—the scrape of rubber soles on cement, followed by the light clink of an iron wok. Lin Chen sat up and pulled out his homework notebook from beneath the wooden bench. The horizontal line on the back cover was still there; the characters for “In” and “Out” had been rubbed smooth and shiny by his fingers. Nine yuan. Noon. He closed the notebook, tucked it into his inner pocket, and felt the faint rustle of fabric against paper.

Shuffling in his cloth shoes, he made his way to the kitchen. Lin Jianguo was squatting at the stove mouth, blowing on the fire. The wood was damp and the smoke thick, making him squint and squeeze deep wrinkles from the corners of his eyes. Seeing Lin Chen emerge, he tossed a handful of dry grass into the firebox. The flames leapt up, casting light on the dark circles under his eyes and his stubble. “Awake? Go open the chicken coop. The market will be crowded today; eggs should fetch a good price.” Lin Chen nodded without a word and pushed open the door to the main room. The mud in the courtyard was still firm; last night’s rain hadn’t fully soaked in, and it crunched under his feet. He walked to the coop in the corner of the yard and lifted the tattered straw curtain. Three speckled hens huddled in the corner. Seeing him, they flapped their wings onto the perch and clucked twice. Seven eggs lay in the straw nest, still carrying the hens’ warmth, their shells dusted with bits of dry grass. He carefully gathered them into a bamboo basket, padding them with dry straw. Then he went behind the woodpile, his fingers groping through broken bricks and rotting wood until he found two rusty rake heads, half a broken shovel handle, and three flattened glass pesticide bottles. The bottoms still carried the pungent sting of DDVP. He carried them to the water vat, scooped water with a wooden ladle, rinsed them twice, and set them on the windowsill to dry. Water droplets slid from the bottle mouths, struck the bluestone slab, and shattered into fragments.

By the time Lin Chen stepped out with the bamboo basket slung over his shoulder, the sky had turned pale. Beneath the old locust tree at the village entrance, a few early-rising men collecting manure squatted and smoked dry tobacco, their pipe bowls glowing and dimming. He kept his head down and walked past quickly, but his mind was already running the numbers. The grain station bought old grain at fifteen fen a jin. The supply and marketing cooperative bought scrap iron at four fen a jin, and glass bottles at two fen apiece. Eggs at the town market could fetch twelve fen each, but he’d have to carry them himself. The risk of breakage was real; one cracked egg meant losing twelve fen. He reached the threshing ground at the east end of the village. Stacks of wheat straw from last autumn’s harvest lined the edge, and a few sparrows hopped across the tops. Several scrap-collecting tricycles were parked outside the cooperative, their cargo beds piled with burlap sacks and cardboard. Lin Chen didn’t hurry over. He stood beside the cooperative’s faded wooden door, staring at the notice pasted to the doorframe. Black characters on red paper, the edges already curled, the paste dried and cracked like fish scales: “Purchasing scrap materials: scrap copper 0.60, scrap aluminum 0.40, scrap iron 0.04, mixed paper 0.02, glass bottles 0.02…” His lips moved silently, tracing the words. Scrap copper, scrap aluminum, mixed paper. Once, these characters had been dead things in his textbooks. Now, pasted on the cooperative door, they had become the notches on a steelyard, the white pills in Xiaoman’s medicine bottle. He pulled a pencil stub from his chest pocket and wrote on a blank page of his notebook: Scrap iron 0.04/jin. Paper 0.02/jin. Bottles 0.02/each. The handwriting was still childish, but the lines were neat, every stroke pressed firmly into the paper.

He turned to head back and ran into Lin Jianguo at the courtyard gate. His father was holding the ten eggs, wrapped in old newspaper and bound tightly with hemp rope that had bitten deep grooves into the paper. Seeing the ironware and bottles in Lin Chen’s basket, Lin Jianguo froze, his steps halting. “What are you picking this stuff up for?” His voice was hoarse, rough with sleep, and carried a barely perceptible tightness. “To sell for money.” Lin Chen’s reply was brief, his eyes fixed on the muddy footprints on the ground. Lin Jianguo said nothing. His gaze lingered on his son’s face for a few seconds. It was a complicated look: surprise, a sharp ache, and the helplessness of a man backed into a corner by life, suddenly watching his child grow a hard shell. He opened his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and finally managed only: “Take it slow on the road. Don’t let anyone cheat you. The scales are often rigged; keep a close eye.” Lin Chen nodded. Lin Jianguo handed him the wrapped eggs. The rough calluses on his fingers brushed against Lin Chen’s hand, bearing the hardened skin and cracks left by years of farm labor. “Take these ten to the market. I’ll queue at the grain station for the rest. We have to scrape together nine yuan today.”

Lin Chen slung the basket over his shoulder and headed toward town. The dirt road was pitted and uneven, and the dew soaked through his pant legs, a chill creeping up his calves. He walked steadily, holding the basket against his chest, carefully stepping around puddles. By the time he reached the market at the east end of town, it was already in full swing. Vegetable vendors, butchers, and pole carriers hawked their wares, their cries mingling with the snorts of livestock and the ringing of bicycle bells. He found a spot against a wall, squatted down, and laid out the ironware and bottles. No one came over right away. He watched the passing rubber and cloth shoes, counting silently in his head. An old man in a blue cloth jacket stopped in front of him, nudged a rake head with his toe, then bent down to weigh it in his hand. “Two fen for this,” the old man said, his tone flat, as if quoting the price of cabbage. “Four fen,” Lin Chen replied, looking up. His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t waver; his gaze met the old man’s directly. The old man studied him for a moment, then smiled, revealing teeth yellowed by smoke. “Little kid, you know the trade? Three fen.” “Deal.” Lin Chen took the three-fen coin, still warm from the man’s hand, and slipped it into his inner pocket. Next came the glass bottles. The scrap tricycle owner passed by, picked one up, held it to the light, and said, “Two fen apiece. I’ll take them all.” Lin Chen didn’t haggle. He handed them over. The man tossed down six fen, pedaled away, his wheels crunching over the gravel. Three fen for the iron, six for the bottles. Nine fen total. It was a long way from nine yuan. But he didn’t panic. He matched the nine fen against the numbers in his notebook from the night before. In: 0.09. Out: 9.00. Difference: 8.91. He picked up his pencil and added a line: Eggs 10, est. 1.20. The pencil tip carved a shallow groove into the paper. He blew away the graphite dust.

After selling his goods, he didn’t head straight home. He walked to the outer wall of the town clinic. Whitewashed slogans were painted on the wall, the lime already peeling to reveal the yellow mud beneath: “Prevention first, combine prevention and treatment. Take medicine on time, control seizures.” He stared at the word “seizures.” Yesterday, Dr. Wang had said that stopping the medicine would trigger them. A seizure meant convulsions, biting through the tongue, being rushed to the county hospital. He opened his notebook and, beneath the “Out” column, neatly copied: Seizure = County Hospital = Tens of yuan = Unpayable. He wrote slowly, stroke by deliberate stroke, as if carving into stone. He then walked to the grain station. The line already stretched around the corner, mostly men carrying burlap sacks, squatting on the ground to smoke or doze. Lin Jianguo stood somewhere in the middle, his back slightly hunched, clutching a cloth bag, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath. Lin Chen didn’t go over to call him. He stood beneath a utility pole across the street, looking at the wooden sign hanging at the grain station entrance: “State Grain Purchasing Station. Grade: Third. Moisture: Below 14%. Impurities: Below 1%.” Moisture, impurities, grade. He had only ever seen these words in his nature textbooks before. Now, they directly determined how many yuan and jiao sixty jin of grain would fetch. He suddenly understood: learning to read wasn’t about scoring perfect marks on exams. It was about understanding these signs, about not being cheated by rigged scales, about knowing exactly how to scrape together nine yuan. Characters were the counterweights on a scale, heavy enough to anchor a drifting life.

By noon, Lin Chen returned home. Lin Jianguo was already back, holding a thin plastic bag containing two blister packs of phenobarbital tablets. The printing on the medicine box was crisp, the aluminum foil reflecting a faint light. Lin Jianguo set the medicine on the table, his movements so gentle it was as if he feared breaking something. “The grain station took it.” He wiped his sweat, his voice weary but carrying a thread of relief. “Sixty jin of grain. After deducting for moisture and impurities, they accepted fifty-eight. Nine yuan and two jiao. Enough for three days’ worth of medicine.” He paused, looking at the notebook in Lin Chen’s arms, then at the nine fen on the table. “You… went out today. Didn’t wander off?” Lin Chen shook his head and placed the nine fen on the table. “From selling the scrap iron and bottles.” Lin Jianguo stared at the coins. His fingers curled slightly, but he didn’t reach for them. He turned toward the kitchen to boil water. His back seemed heavier than yesterday, the bones of his shoulders pushing against his old undershirt to form two sharp angles. “Chen wa zi,” he said, his back still turned, his voice muffled by the smoke, “your dad’s no good at this. You… don’t wear yourself out.” Lin Chen didn’t answer. He picked up the medicine box and turned it over. [Usage & Dosage] Oral. 0.03g per dose, three times daily. He took out his pencil and wrote in his notebook: Phenobarbital. 0.03g. Three times daily. When he finished, he closed the book.

Xiaoman woke up. He sat up on his own, neither crying nor fussing, but his gaze was slightly unfixed, staring at the roof beams, his fingers unconsciously picking at the edge of the kang mat. Lin Jianguo brought a bowl of warm water, crushed the tablets, mixed them with a little white sugar, and fed them to him. Xiaoman’s brows furrowed slightly, but there were no convulsions; only a soft gulping sound came from his throat. Lin Chen sat on the edge of the kang, watching his brother swallow. He knew this calm was propped up entirely by the medicine. Once it stopped, the roots would still be in the soil. He reached out and touched Xiaoman’s hair. It was soft, carrying the smell of sweat and soapberry. Xiaoman turned his head, looked at him, and his lips moved, but no sound came out. Lin Chen wrung out a towel until it was dry and laid it on his brother’s forehead. The temperature was normal. But Lin Chen knew this was only the lull before the storm. He had to secure the umbrella’s ribs before the next rain fell.

By evening, the light in the courtyard faded, dusk settling over the roof like a layer of gray gauze. Lin Chen sat on the wooden bench; the kerosene lamp hadn’t been lit yet. He opened his notebook to a fresh page. The pencil tip glided across the paper, making a soft rustling sound. He was no longer just recording numbers. He began copying characters. From the medicine box, from the grain station sign, from the cooperative’s notice. 苯、巴、比、妥、水、分、杂、质、等、级、收、购、发、作。 He copied slowly. With each character, he recited its price in his mind, its weight, how it connected to Xiaoman’s breathing. When he reached the character for “account” (账), he stopped. He stared at it, suddenly remembering the scrap collector’s words from the market that day: “Little kid, only those who keep clear accounts won’t starve.” Lin Chen said nothing. He drew a firm line beneath the character “账.” Then, below the line, he wrote a row of small characters: Those who can keep accounts won’t starve. Those who can read won’t be cheated. He blew the graphite dust off the page. Outside the window came the distant puttering of a tractor, rolling over the dirt road and kicking up a cloud of dust that settled on the windowsill in a thin layer. Lin Chen closed his notebook and pressed it beneath his pillow. Tomorrow, he would go to the cooperative to check the sign for scrap copper. The day after, he would help Grandpa Li at the east end of the village chop firewood in exchange for two jiao. The road ahead was still long, but the horizontal line in his ledger was already growing straighter.