Chapter 13: Rations for Thirty Li

5:30 AM. The sky was still a dull blue-gray, the clouds pressing low like a coarse cloth soaked through with water. Lin Chen pushed the door open, and the cold crept up from his ankles. He hadn’t worn socks, just shoved his feet straight into his rubber shoes. The insoles had been dried over straw the night before and still held a faint warmth; they made a soft, rustling sound under his weight. He stamped his feet to shake off the dried mud from the soles, slung the fertilizer-bag backpack over his shoulders, and locked the wooden door to the main hall. The keys hung at his waist, their metallic clink barely loud enough to disturb the breathing from the inner room.

Thirty li. Sixty li round trip. He stood in the courtyard, not in a hurry to leave. First, he ran through the measurements in his head. From Qingshi Village to the east end of town was eight li; from there to County No. 1 High School was twenty-two li. Thirty li total. Based on the physical reserves he’d built up unloading hemp sacks yesterday, walking empty-handed he could cover seven and a half li per hour. With a load, six li per hour. Five hours one way. Ten hours round trip. Add two hours for the tutoring class, and it came to twelve hours total. Depart at six in the morning, arrive home at six in the evening. He couldn’t stop for long. Stop too long, and his legs would stiffen, his breath would scatter. The ledger showed a balance of four yuan and one jiao. After setting aside money for medicine, he only had two yuan and three jiao to spend. No fare to pay, but he needed dry rations. Water. Shoe repairs.

He turned into the kitchen. The coal stove had been banked for the night, but residual heat remained. He lifted the lid, pulled out two cold sweet potatoes, and set them on the cutting board. Then he scooped half a bowl of coarse rice from the grain jar, mixed in a handful of cornmeal, added water, and stirred it smooth. He stuffed fine kindling into the stove, struck a match, and coaxed the flame. The fire licked the bottom of the pot with a faint crackle. He sat on a small folding stool, watching the flames. There was no fatigue in his mind, only calculation. He couldn’t carry too much food. Too much would weigh down his shoulders and drain his stamina. Too little, and he’d starve by afternoon; hunger would make his mind go numb. Two or three steamed buns, plus a little salt, would be enough to last until four o’clock. Water had to be sufficient. The high school had a well, but drawing water during breaks meant waiting in line, and he couldn’t afford to waste time on it.

The water boiled. He lifted the lid, and steam hit his face, carrying the sweet, earthy scent of grain. He spread the batter into two thin pancakes and pressed them against the inner wall of the pot. He covered it and let them steam. While waiting, he took off his rubber shoes and inspected the soles. The rubber on the ball of his left foot was worn thin, the fabric weave faintly visible beneath. The stitching on his right heel had come undone, exposing half an inch of hemp thread. He fetched a thick needle and a length of hemp thread, sat on the threshold, and began to sew. The stitches were tight; every three stitches, he pulled the thread taut. The hemp bit into the rubber with a faint friction sound. When he finished, he scraped the sole against the bluestone step. Flat. Ready to walk.

The pancakes were done. He peeled them off and laid them in a bamboo tray to cool. As the heat dissipated, they hardened. He wrapped them in oil paper and tucked them into the side pocket of his backpack. He grabbed a handful of coarse salt, wrapped it tightly in another sheet of oil paper, and slipped it into his inner pocket. Salt would replenish the strength lost in sweat. He filled his enamel mug to the brim, screwed the lid on tight, wrapped the outside in a layer of old cotton cloth, and bound it with hemp rope. It prevented burns and protected against bumps.

The hinge of the main hall door creaked. Lin Jianguo stepped out. An old towel was draped over his shoulder, and in his hand he held a pair of half-new Liberation shoes. The soles were densely stitched, the uppers washed pale but without a single hole. He placed them on the threshold, didn’t look at Lin Chen, and simply said, “Rubber shoes slip on long walks. Switch to these.” His voice was raspy, like sandpaper rubbing against wood.

Lin Chen looked down at the shoes. The Liberation shoes had rubber soles, softer than the rubber boots, with better grip. But the uppers were shallow, and gravel would easily work its way in on rocky paths. He nodded, took off his rubber shoes, and put on the Liberation shoes. He laced them tight. The new shoes hugged his feet snugly, though a bit tight. He flexed his toes. They would do.

Lin Jianguo turned back to the kitchen. He felt around in the cupboard, pulled out two boiled eggs, and set them on the stove. The shells still held body heat. He said nothing, just pushed them forward. Lin Chen picked one up, peeled it. The white was hot; he blew on it and took a bite. Salty. His mother had boiled them in salt water. He ate it slowly. He saved the shells, burying them in the stove ash. They could feed the chickens tomorrow.

“Don’t run on the road,” Lin Jianguo tapped out his pipe. “If you’re tired, lean against a tree and rest for five minutes. Don’t sit on the ground. The dampness will seep in and cramp your legs.” “Understood.” Lin Chen hoisted his backpack. The familiar weight settled on his shoulders. He pushed the door open. The morning wind rushed in, carrying the scent of dew.

5:50 AM. He stepped out of the courtyard gate. The dew on the gravel tractor road was heavier than yesterday, making the surface slick and hard underfoot. He walked steadily, regulating his breath to one inhale every two steps. His mind held no stray thoughts, only rhythm. Step one, step two. Shoulders relaxed, weight shifting forward. The rubber soles of the Liberation shoes ground over the gravel with a dull, rustling sound. He adjusted his stride. Not too long, not too short—exactly the length of a single bluestone brick. Fix the stride, and the breath wouldn’t falter. Keep the breath steady, and conserve stamina.

Eight li to the east end of town. The sun had just crested the ridge, its light slicing diagonally across the tractor road, stretching his shadow long. The town’s breakfast stalls were already set up. Youtiao tumbled in the oil with a sizzling hiss. Steam from soy milk mixed with coal smoke hung in the air. He didn’t stop. His pace didn’t break. Passing the grain station, the iron gate stood half-open. The man in the peaked cap stood outside smoking, saw him, and nodded. Lin Chen returned the nod. No words. He kept walking.

Past the town, the road changed. The gravel tractor road merged into the county highway. The surface was compacted yellow earth, higher in the middle and sloping to the sides, carved with two deep ruts from rain runoff. Bicycles and tractors had rolled over it, leaving deep impressions. Lin Chen walked on the hard shoulder, avoiding the soft mud in the center. The backpack straps dug into his shoulders, burning. He didn’t switch arms. Switching would break his rhythm. He adjusted his breathing. Inhale, two steps. Exhale, two steps. Sweat seeped from his forehead, ran into his eyes, and stung sharply. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and continued.

He marked every five li in his mind. Ten li. His calves began to ache. Twenty li. The soles of his feet burned, blisters rubbing inside his shoes, a dull throb. Twenty-five li. His breathing grew heavy, his throat parched. He unscrewed the enamel mug, took a sip. The water carried the taste of the cloth, cool. He swallowed it down, pressing back the rising acid in his stomach. He didn’t stop. His pace didn’t break. There were no complaints in his head, only calculation. Five li left. Five li, fifty minutes. At his current stamina, he could hold out. He couldn’t conserve energy. If he did, he wouldn’t make it back in the afternoon.

The trees along the road grew denser. The leaves of the white poplars were turning yellow, rustling in the wind. Low red-brick houses appeared in the distance. TV antennas stood on their roofs. The earthy smell in the air faded, replaced by coal smoke and asphalt. The county road turned into an asphalt surface. Smooth, but hard. The rubber soles of the Liberation shoes clicked crisply against it. Lin Chen slowed his pace slightly. Not from fatigue, but adjustment. Asphalt was hard and jarred the feet. He shifted to landing on the balls of his feet to cushion the impact. He brought his breathing back under control.

Thirty li. The iron fence of County No. 1 High School came into view. A red-brick wall, two black-painted iron gates swinging inward. A white sign with red characters hung on the gate pillars: Qinghe County No. 1 Middle School. The gate was open. Several “28-inch” bicycles were parked outside. Their bells glinted in the sunlight. A few boys in dacron shirts pushed their bikes inside. Their shoes were clean, their trouser legs sharply creased. Lin Chen stood in the shade of the shoulder, not rushing in. He took off his backpack, set it on the ground, unscrewed his mug, and took another drink. He wiped his face with a damp towel. The towel was cold against his skin, sending a shiver through him. He was awake now.

He slung the backpack back on. The weight settled on his shoulders. He walked to the iron gate. The old guard in the booth was reading a newspaper through reading glasses, not looking up. Lin Chen stepped over the threshold. His feet met the smooth cement floor. Hard. Stable. The courtyard was wide. Two rows of French parasol trees flanked the main path, their fallen leaves carpeting the ground. In the distance stood the teaching building. A three-story red-brick structure, windows open, the sound of turning pages and voices drifting out. The noise was mixed but clear. Not the echoing clamor of the town middle school, but a hushed, rhythmic discussion.

He walked along the main path. His steps were light. The rubber soles of his Liberation shoes made a faint scraping sound on the cement. Passing the bulletin board, he stopped. Behind the glass case was a sheet of red paper. The heading read: Schedule and Guidelines for County No. 1 High School Weekend Tutoring Classes. Below it listed times, classrooms, and instructors. The last line read: Latecomers will not be admitted. Bring your own scratch paper. Loud talking is strictly prohibited. The handwriting was neat, done with a fountain pen. The ink was deep black.

He read it once. Didn’t miss a word. The times matched. The classroom was on the third floor, east wing. He lowered his gaze and continued. The stairs were cement, the steps high. He climbed them one by one. Knees slightly bent, back straight. Exerting force. Not brute strength, but driving with the legs, pushing from the waist. Just like unloading sacks. He found the rhythm. His breath stayed steady.

Third floor. The corridor was long. Windows were open, a draft passing through, carrying the smell of chalk dust and old paper. East wing, third classroom. The door was open. It was already more than half full. The desks were wooden, their surfaces carved with varying depths of graffiti. On the blackboard, today’s subject was written: Chinese. Below it, the exam points: Narrative structure, argumentative thesis, breaking down material-based essays. The characters were large, chalk dust settling on the podium in a thin layer.

Lin Chen walked to the back row. The seat by the window. Empty. He set down his backpack, took out the oil-paper-wrapped rations, and placed them in the desk cubby. He set the enamel mug on the floor. He took out his error notebook and past-paper compilation, spreading them open. His pencil case held only two pencils, an eraser, and a plastic ruler. He sat up straight. Shoulders relaxed. Breath controlled.

The boy in front turned around. He wore a clean white shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms. His hair was neatly combed. His gaze lingered for a moment on Lin Chen’s faded Liberation shoes and the fertilizer-bag backpack. He said nothing. Turned back around.

Lin Chen didn’t look up. He opened the past-paper compilation. The first page was a Chinese exam. Essay prompt: My Hometown. He stared at the line. His knuckles were slightly stiff from gripping the pen too long. The blister on his palm had been rubbed raw by the pencil, seeping a thread of blood. He didn’t stop. He kept reading. Studying the structural breakdown of model essays. Analyzing the distribution of scoring points. Four hundred words. The extra hundred-word margin wasn’t for padding; it was for laying out a collective backdrop. He needed to pull the “I” perspective back half a step. Let “we” stand in front.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. Heavy. Leather shoes striking the terrazzo floor with crisp clicks. The sound drew closer. The rustling of pages in the classroom stopped. The whispers died. The air suddenly went still.

Lin Chen looked up. A man in a gray Zhongshan suit stood in the doorway. Around fifty. Hair graying, combed with meticulous precision. He held a stack of test papers. His gaze swept the room. Cold. Like a blade.

“Class begins.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room with absolute clarity.

The man walked to the podium, set the papers down, and tapped the chalk against the blackboard twice. Dust rose.

“We’re not covering basics today,” he said. “Only how to score. County exams and town exams are different. Town exams look at attitude; county exams look at logic. If your logic is wrong, it doesn’t matter how beautiful your handwriting is—you get zero.”

He flipped open a paper. First page. Essay prompt.

“My Hometown,” the man read aloud. “Four hundred words. How many of you will write ‘there’s a river in front of my house’? How many will write ‘peach blossoms in spring, golden rice in autumn’?” He paused. His gaze swept the room. It landed on the back row. On Lin Chen. Held for half a second. Moved on.

“Grading teachers read three hundred papers a day,” he continued. “If you don’t grab their attention in the first three lines, they flip straight to the back. They check the ending. If the ending doesn’t hold weight, minus ten points. No logic in the middle, minus fifteen. Sloppy handwriting, minus five. Add it up, that’s thirty points. An essay is out of forty. Do the math yourselves on what you can actually score.”

No one in the classroom spoke. Only the sound of turning pages.

Lin Chen lowered his head. He looked at the line in his error notebook: County exam logic correction: Personal experience must be grafted onto collective narrative. His pen tip paused. He crossed out “grafted” and wrote “embedded.” Embedding was more stable. Grafting was foreign; embedding grew together. He kept writing. Drafting the opening sentence. Planning alternative examples. Outlining three closing sentence structures. The pen tip tore the paper. He stopped. Looked at the line.

The man began explaining the first paragraph. How to open. How to state the thesis. How to use collective background as a foundation. His voice was flat, but every word landed heavily on the desks. Lin Chen wrote along. The pen scratched against the paper, making a rustling sound. Just like last night. Just like unloading sacks. The rhythm was found.

Outside, the sun climbed higher. Light sliced diagonally into the classroom, falling across the blackboard. Chalk dust floated in the sunbeams like fine motes. Lin Chen’s breathing gradually steadied. He knew today was only the beginning. Understanding the logic was one thing; practicing it was another. Mastering the practice meant taking the exam. Taking the exam meant winning. Step by step. Dust settled on the windowsill in a thin layer. He reached out and brushed it away, his fingertips catching the gray, leaving a faint print on the cover of his workbook.

The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the man had already assigned the work: Forty-minute time limit, write a four-hundred-word outline. Hand it in before class ends. Those who don’t, don’t bother coming next time.

The classroom filled with the sound of turning pages. Pens scratching across paper. Rustle. Rustle.

Lin Chen lowered his head. Turned to a fresh page. His pen hovered over the paper. Didn’t move. He was calculating. Calculating time. Calculating structure. Calculating scoring points. Calculating, within forty minutes, exactly which line each minute should fall on. The mental abacus turned. Like a second hand. Tick. Tick.

He brought the pen down. The first line. The handwriting was light, but it cut deep.