Chapter 15: Rust and Rope

Before dawn. Lin Chen woke up.

His body felt as if crushed by a heavy weight, every joint stiff. He didn’t move at first, only slowly flexing and extending his toes. The blisters on his soles had hardened into scabs; pressing against the coarse cotton sheet, they pulled at his nerves. He sat up. The kerosene lamp in the main room had gone out. Only the faint sound of his mother working the bellows in the kitchen reached him—huff, huff—steady and rhythmic. He walked to the stove in the dark. The water in the vat was cold. He scooped a ladleful and splashed it on his face. The chill tightened his skin, and sleep vanished instantly. He was awake.

He returned to the inner room. Dragged out the crowbar his father had left from under the bed. The iron rod was rough, caked with dried mud. He wrapped one end in an old piece of burlap and wiped it down. Then he picked up the hemp rope, soaked in water. It was heavy, carrying the damp, earthy smell of soil. He wrapped the rope twice around his waist and tied a dead knot. Pulled it tight. Not too loose, not too tight. Just enough to leverage his weight without cutting into his skin. His schoolbag sat on the threshold. Inside: a notebook of corrected mistakes, half a pencil, and the four-hundred-word outline draft he’d written the night before. He checked it once. Zipped it shut. The weight settled on his shoulders. Familiar heaviness.

He pushed the door open. Morning fog flowed close to the ground. The dirt road of Qingshi Village wasn’t fully dry yet, soft underfoot. He avoided the puddles and walked along the field ridges. The ridges were narrow, overgrown with foxtail grass. Dew soaked his trouser legs, cold. He walked steadily. Controlled his breathing to one inhale every two steps. No stray thoughts in his mind, only the route. Qingshi Village to the west end of town: eight li. The brick kiln was another two li north from there. Ten li total. Given his current stamina, walking empty-handed, he could cover eight li an hour. Carrying a load, he’d have to slow down. He needed to arrive before seven. The kiln guards changed shifts at seven-thirty. That left a forty-minute window. The timing was tight.

Seven-ten. The silhouette of the brick kiln emerged from the fog. Most of the red brick wall had collapsed, exposing the charred kiln mouth. The air hung thick with the smell of sulfur and damp earth. The iron gate stood ajar. Lin Chen pushed it open. The hinges groaned dryly. The yard was piled with discarded firebricks and rusted iron frames. A man in faded work clothes squatted in the corner, smoking. Graying hair, slightly stooped back. It was Old Zhao.

Lin Chen approached. Lightened his steps. “Uncle Zhao.” His voice was low.

Old Zhao looked up. Squinted at him. His gaze lingered on the hemp rope at Lin Chen’s waist and the crowbar in his hand. “Jianguo’s boy?” His voice was raspy, thick with smoke.

“Yeah.” Lin Chen nodded. “My dad said you owe him two packs of cigarettes. I’m here to take some scrap iron to settle the debt.”

Old Zhao didn’t speak. Tapped his ash. The ember hit the dirt and died instantly. He stood up, brushed the dust from his trousers. “The conveyor belt supports are in the back yard. Rotted through. Nobody wants them. Take them apart. Don’t touch the main beams. If it collapses, no one’s pulling you out.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Understood.”

He walked into the back yard. The conveyor belt supports lay among the weeds. Cast iron, crusted with thick red rust. Two main beams, connected in the middle by crossbeams and roller axles. By eye, at least thirty jin. He squatted down. Ran his fingers over the rust. Rough, biting. He drew the crowbar. Found the fulcrum. Wedged a thick, dead branch beneath the iron frame. Slid the crowbar into the gap. Gripped the handle with both hands. Kept his back straight. Lowered his center of gravity. Not pulling with his arms, but driving with his legs, pushing from his waist. Applied force. The iron frame groaned with a dull friction sound. Flakes of rust showered down. It moved. He adjusted his breathing. Inhale. Press. Exhale. Press again. The principle of leverage. Middle school physics hadn’t covered it yet, but he’d long mastered it unloading grain sacks. The closer the fulcrum, the less effort required. He shifted the fulcrum bit by bit. The frame lifted half a foot. He quickly looped the hemp rope through the gap in the crossbeam. Pulled it tight. Tied a knot. Secured it.

First frame dismantled. He leaned against the brick wall, gasping. Sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes, stinging sharply. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Fished half a hard biscuit from the side pocket of his bag. Stuffed it into his mouth. Dry, hard, scraping his throat. He unscrewed his enamel mug, took a sip of water. Washed down the acid in his stomach. Rest couldn’t exceed five minutes. Past that, his muscles would cool down, and exerting force again risked strain. He opened his mistake notebook. In the faint morning light, reviewed the outline he’d written the night before. Four hundred words. Structure: opening, development, turn, conclusion. He recited it silently in his head. Changed “Qingshi Village’s Autumn Harvest” to “Morning Fog at the Brick Kiln.” Scene swapped. Logic unchanged. Collective narrative. No personal suffering, just labor itself. The pen tip moved across the draft paper. The strokes were light. Scratch. Scratch.

Five minutes up. He closed the notebook. Continued dismantling the second frame. This one was heavier. The roller axle was jammed. He had to pry it loose with the crowbar. The rust bit deep. He adjusted his angle. Slid the crowbar into the axle sleeve. Gripped tight. Engaged his core and waist. Muscles tensed. Knuckles turned white. The iron frame screeched with harsh friction. Suddenly, a dog barked in the distance. Then footsteps. Messy. More than one person. Lin Chen froze. Held his breath. Listened carefully. The sounds came from outside the yard gate. The shift-changing guards. Early. He quickly scanned his surroundings. The dismantled frames hadn’t been weighed yet. Couldn’t leave them here. He swiftly looped the rope around both frames. Tied a knot. Pulled tight. Hoisted them onto his shoulder. The weight crashed down instantly. His collarbones burned from the pressure. He clenched his teeth. Quickened his pace. Couldn’t run. Running would break his rhythm, make noise. He hugged the wall, avoiding the main path, circling to the low wall on the side of the back yard. Ivy covered the top. He stood on tiptoe. Pushed the iron frames over first. Then planted both hands on the wall. Pulled himself up. Kicked his legs. Vaulted over. Landed. Knees slightly bent to absorb the impact. No sound.

He carried the frames along the tractor path toward the town’s scrap yard. Steps steady. Breathing controlled. Sweat soaked his undershirt, clinging to his back, cold. Ten li. He covered it in forty minutes. The scrap yard’s iron gate had just opened. The boss, a fat man wearing glasses, sat beside the scale, drinking tea. Seeing him, he paused. “Kid, what are you carrying?”

“Scrap iron.” Lin Chen set the frames down. Caught his breath.

The boss walked over. Kicked the frames. “Cast iron. Heavily rusted. Eight fen a jin. Weigh it.”

Lin Chen nodded. Placed the frames on the scale. The needle wavered. Stopped at eleven jin four liang. The boss flicked his abacus. “Nine mao one.”

Lin Chen didn’t speak. Took out his ledger from his pocket. Flipped to a blank page. Wrote: Scrap iron 11.4 jin. Unit price 0.08. Total 0.91. He looked up. “Can you round it up? Nine mao five.”

The boss glanced at him. Didn’t haggle. Fished five one-fen coins from a drawer and slid them over. “Nine mao five. Bring cleaner stuff next time.”

Lin Chen pocketed the coins. His fingertips brushed the cold metal. He nodded. Turned and left.

The return trip felt lighter. But his body had reached its limit. His calves felt like lead, trembling with every step. He walked slowly. No fatigue in his mind, only calculations. Nine mao five. The shortfall remained at three kuai seventy-five. Five days. Needed to earn seven mao five daily. Three more supports at the kiln. Could dismantle them. But his stamina couldn’t handle back-to-back labor. Had to alternate. Tomorrow, go to the grain station to carry water for people. Five fen per load. Fifteen loads. Seven mao five. Time would be enough. He pushed open the courtyard gate. The main room was lit. His mother was brewing medicine in the kitchen. A bitter smell filled the air. He set down his bag. Walked to the inner room. Xiao Man was asleep. Breathing steady. But his fingers twitched slightly. Very faint. Lin Chen stood by the bed. Watched for three seconds. Didn’t move. He walked to the main room. Opened the ledger. Updated the numbers.

Balance: 3.25 yuan. Shortfall: 3.75 yuan. Time: 5 days.

He picked up his pencil. Wrote in the blank space: Tomorrow’s plan: Carry 15 loads of water at the grain station. Dismantle the third support at the kiln. Draft expansion of the essay. The pen tip paused. He crossed out “draft” and changed it to “final draft.” The county exam’s grading scale couldn’t be rushed. Rushing would bring chaos.

His mother walked in carrying a bowl of medicine. Set it on the table. Her gaze fell on his worn-out Liberation shoes and his rust-stained trousers. She didn’t speak. Just handed him a clean towel. “Wipe up.” Her voice was soft.

Lin Chen took it. The towel was warm. He slowly wiped his face. His hands. His feet. Movements deliberate. His mother turned back to the kitchen. The firelight illuminated the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Lin Chen looked at the medicine bowl on the table. Dark brown liquid, steaming. He lifted it. Blew on it. Took a sip. Bitter. Astringent. Swallowed. His stomach churned. He set the bowl down. Opened his mistake notebook. The four-hundred-word outline. Began expanding it. The pen tip touched the paper. Scratch. Scratch. Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened. Distant mountain silhouettes lay silent in the dusk. Lin Chen’s breathing steadied. He knew tomorrow would be harder. But the numbers in the ledger were inching closer. Seven yuan. Not fallen from the sky, but scraped from rust, boiled out of sweat. Step by step.

The main room’s door hinge creaked again. His father walked in. Carrying a sack of newly harvested corn on his shoulder. Set it in the corner. He glanced at the ledger on the table. Didn’t ask. Just said, “Old Li from the town photo studio is going to the county tomorrow to restock. You can ask him to take the photos. Pay a one-yuan deposit first.”

Lin Chen looked up. Met his father’s gaze. Calm. “Understood.”

Lin Jianguo tapped his ash. Turned toward the kitchen. Lin Chen lowered his head. Continued writing. The pen tip tore the paper. He stopped. Looked at the line. Four hundred twenty words. Logical chain complete. Hits every scoring point. He closed the notebook. Blew out the kerosene lamp. Darkness swallowed the main room. He lay on the hard wooden bed. Stared at the ceiling. His body felt dismantled and reassembled, every muscle screaming with soreness. But his mind was clear. Tomorrow: carry water. dismantle iron. pay deposit. four hundred words. The county exam’s logic. Everything was being recalculated. Night wind slipped through the window crack, rustling the ledger on the table. Pages turned, making a faint scratch sound.

From the inner room came a very faint, muffled groan. Xiao Man turned over. His breathing suddenly grew shallow. The twitching in his fingers intensified slightly, his nails scraping the sheet, producing a faint friction sound. Lin Chen didn’t open his eyes. Under the blanket, his fingers slowly clenched. Knuckles turned white. Then relaxed. Breathing steady. Tomorrow, he’d have to go to the town clinic. The medicine couldn’t stop. The shortfall in the ledger would have to be recalculated.