Chapter 16: Five Fen a Load

Before daylight could pierce the window paper, Lin Chen opened his eyes.

His body felt as though it had been bound with coarse hemp rope all night, the muscles in his shoulder blades and lower back stiff and numb. He didn’t rush to get up. First, he slowly flexed and extended his toes under the quilt, coaxing blood back to his extremities. The blisters on his soles had formed a yellowish-brown scab, the edges slightly curled. He threw back the covers and stepped barefoot onto the dirt floor. The chill crawled up from his soles, sending a faint tremor through his calf muscles. He walked to the water vat, scooped half a gourd of cold water, and splashed it over his face. Droplets traced his jawline and fell away. Sleep was completely gone.

He returned to the inner room and pulled the crowbar from under the bed. The hemp rope was half-dry, still holding the dampness of the night. He soaked it again, then wrapped it tightly around his waist. He zipped up his schoolbag, placing the error notebook and pencil in the outermost layer. The ledger was tucked under his pillow. He took out the pencil and put a checkmark next to yesterday’s plan.

He pushed open the door. The morning mist was thinner than yesterday, but the damp cold in the air was heavier. Dew still clung to the field ridges, water droplets hanging from the tips of foxtail grass. He walked slowly, keeping his center of gravity low, avoiding muddy ruts. He controlled his breathing: one inhale every three steps. His mind held no stray thoughts, only the route and the weight. The grain station was at the east end of town, six li from Qingshi Village. Walking empty-handed, it took forty minutes.

7:20. The blue-brick wall of the grain station came into view. The courtyard gate stood half-open, already bustling inside. Sacks were piled into small hills, loaders shuttling back and forth with carrying poles. The air was thick with the musty smell of aged grain and sour sweat. Lin Chen walked to the water vats outside the courtyard wall. Two large iron vats, filled with clear water drawn from the well. Beside them lay three carrying poles and six bamboo buckets. The bucket rims were bound with iron, and a layer of scale settled at the bottom.

Old Sun, the bookkeeper, sat on the threshold working an abacus. Hearing footsteps, he looked up. Seeing a half-grown boy, his brows furrowed. “Whose kid is this? We don’t hire child labor here.”

“Carrying water. Five fen a load.” Lin Chen’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word was clear. “To the kitchen vat. Minimum fifteen loads.”

Old Sun stopped his abacus. He sized him up for two seconds. His gaze fell on the damp hemp rope around his waist and the old burlap pad on his shoulder. “The pole digs into the shoulders. Can you take it?”

“I can take it.” Lin Chen stepped forward and picked up a carrying pole. It was made of hardwood, its surface polished shiny by sweat, with a shallow groove worn into the middle. He hooked the bamboo buckets onto the ends. The iron hooks clinked with a crisp sound. He squatted, braced the middle of the pole against his shoulder, kept his back straight, bent his knees slightly, and pushed off. The weight came down instantly. The pole dug painfully into his collarbone, but he didn’t drop his shoulder. He shifted his weight forward and took a step.

First step. Second step. Third step. The rhythm found him. The water in the buckets sloshed with his pace, making a dull splashing sound. He controlled his stride to keep the water from spilling. Spilled water meant shifting weight, and shifting weight meant breaking rhythm. He walked along the courtyard wall, skirted the sack piles, and headed for the kitchen. The kitchen was at the far end of the yard, with a waist-high concrete water vat at the door. Only a third of the water remained inside. He set the pole down. Tilted the buckets. A stream of water poured into the vat. Splash. Splash. Both buckets emptied. He straightened up. His shoulders burned, but he didn’t rub them. Rubbing would disrupt muscle memory. He turned and walked back to the vats.

Second load. Third load. Fourth load. Sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes, stinging sharply. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. His breathing grew heavier. The pole slid back and forth on his shoulder, wearing through the old burlap and pressing directly against his skin. The pain was sharp, but clear. He didn’t dwell on it. He just counted. One load. Two loads. Three loads. Fifteen was the baseline. One load short, and the numbers in the ledger wouldn’t match.

By the seventh load, his calves began to ache. The muscles felt packed with wet sand, each lift demanding a fraction more effort. He adjusted his breathing. Inhale, drop the shoulder, step. Exhale, relax the waist, land. The rhythm couldn’t break. Break it once, and the next ten steps would have to compensate. He clenched his back teeth. A faint metallic taste of blood seeped from his gums. He swallowed it. Kept walking.

Old Sun sat on the threshold, no longer watching him. He only glanced up occasionally. The abacus beads clicked faster and faster.

Fifteenth load. The vat was full. The water level sat two finger-widths below the rim. Lin Chen set down the pole. His shoulders were numb, marked by two deep purple grooves. He leaned against the kitchen’s earthen wall, gasping. His chest heaved violently. He pulled half a hard biscuit from the side pocket of his bag and stuffed it into his mouth. Dry and coarse, it scraped his throat. He unscrewed his enamel mug, took a sip. The water slid down his esophagus, settling the acid in his stomach.

Old Sun walked over. He pulled a handful of loose change from his pocket, counted out seven five-fen coins, and handed them over. “Seventy-five fen. Coming back tomorrow?”

Lin Chen took them. The coins were cold, their edges slightly rough. He nodded. “I’ll be here.”

He slipped the coins into his inner pocket, against his chest. He turned and left the grain station. His steps were heavier than on the way there, but his direction was clear. West end of town. Brick kiln. The third iron frame.

8:30. Kiln backyard. Old Zhao was still smoking. Seeing him, he said nothing, just dropped his cigarette butt and crushed it under his shoe. “Third one’s in the corner. The roller axle’s rusted solid. Don’t force it. If the sleeve cracks, the frame will fall apart.”

Lin Chen nodded. He walked to the corner. The third support was heavier than the first two. Its surface was caked in a thick layer of oxidation, blackened with age. He squatted. His fingers brushed the rust. Rough, biting. He drew out the crowbar. Found the fulcrum. A broken firebrick lay underneath. He wedged the crowbar into the gap. Gripped it with both hands. Kept his back straight. Sank his weight. It wasn’t about arm strength; it was about driving with the legs, pushing from the waist. He exerted force. The iron frame didn’t budge. The rust had bitten too deep.

He adjusted the angle. Shifted the fulcrum inward by two inches. The lever arm shortened, but the force concentrated. He drew a deep breath. Tightened his core. His knuckles turned white. He pressed down. The frame groaned dully. Rust flakes showered down. It moved half an inch. He quickly looped the hemp rope around the crossbeam. Pulled it tight. Tied a knot. Secured it. Then he shifted position. Pried the other side. Repeated. Press. Shift. Loop. Secure. The movements were mechanical, devoid of extra emotion. Only weight and fulcrum.

Forty minutes later. The third iron frame was completely clear of the ground. He leaned against the brick wall, gasping. Sweat had soaked through his undershirt, clinging to his back, cold. He opened the error notebook. In the morning light, he reviewed last night’s outline. Four hundred twenty words. Structure complete. Logical chain closed. He recited it silently in his head. Swapped “morning mist at the brick kiln” for “water vat at the grain station.” Scene changed, core unchanged. Collective labor. Don’t write about suffering; write about order. The pen tip moved across the draft paper. Scratch. Scratch.

Five-minute rest. He closed the notebook. Retied the hemp rope tightly. Shouldered the iron frame. The weight came down. His collarbone ached again. He clenched his teeth. Picked up his pace. Walked along the tractor road toward the scrap yard. Ten li. He covered it in thirty-five minutes.

The scrap yard’s iron gate stood open. The fat boss was drinking tea. Seeing him, he set down his cup. “Early today.”

“Weigh it.” Lin Chen set down the frame. Caught his breath.

The boss walked over. Kicked the frame. “Pig iron. Rusted through. Eight fen a jin.”

Lin Chen nodded. Hefted the frame onto the scale. The needle wavered. Stopped at twelve jin two liang. The boss worked the abacus. “Ninety-seven fen.”

Lin Chen said nothing. Pulled the ledger from his pocket. Flipped to a blank page. Wrote: Scrap iron: 12.2 jin. Unit price: 0.08. Total: 0.97. He looked up. “Can you round it? One yuan.”

The boss glanced at him. Didn’t haggle. Pulled three one-fen coins from the drawer and slid them over. “One yuan. Bring cleaner stuff next time.”

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

The walk back felt lighter. But his body had reached its limit. His calves felt like lead, trembling with every step. He walked slowly. His mind held no fatigue, only the abacus. One yuan. Seventy-five fen. Total: one yuan seventy-five fen. Add yesterday’s three yuan twenty-five fen. Balance: five yuan. Shortfall: two yuan. Time: four days.

He pushed open the courtyard gate. The main room was lit. His mother was brewing medicine in the kitchen. The bitter smell permeated the air. He set down his bag. Walked to the inner room. Xiao Man was asleep. Breathing steady. But the tremors in his fingers were slightly worse than yesterday. His nails had left faint scratches on the bedsheets. 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: 5.00 yuan. Shortfall: 2.00 yuan. Time: 4 days.

He picked up the pencil. Wrote in the blank space: Tomorrow’s plan: Follow-up at town clinic. Pay photo deposit. Finalize essay. The pen tip paused. He crossed out “Finalize essay” and changed it to “Transcribe.” The county exam’s scoring rubric couldn’t be altered. Only steadiness mattered.

His mother walked in carrying a bowl of medicine. Set it on the table. Her gaze fell on the purple marks on his shoulders and the rust-stained pants. She said nothing. 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 shoulders. Movements deliberate. His mother turned back to the kitchen. The firelight caught the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Lin Chen looked at the medicine bowl on the table. Brown liquid, steaming. He lifted it. Blew on it. Took a sip. Bitter. Astringent. Swallowed. His stomach churned. He set the bowl down. Walked to the inner room. Picked up Xiao Man. His brother was light. Bones sharp against his arms. He draped an old cotton-padded jacket over Xiao Man. Walked out the courtyard gate.

The town clinic was at the south end of town. Two li. He walked steadily. Kept his breathing controlled. Steps even. He pushed open the clinic’s wooden door. The smell of disinfectant mixed with damp mold hit him. Dr. Wang sat behind the desk, wearing reading glasses, writing medical records. Seeing him, he looked up. “Lin Jianguo’s boy?”

“Yes.” Lin Chen placed Xiao Man on the examination bed. “Follow-up.”

Dr. Wang set down his pen. Picked up a stethoscope. The cold metal pressed against Xiao Man’s chest. He had Xiao Man open his mouth, checked his tongue coating. Shined a flashlight into his pupils. Pressed his fingers against Xiao Man’s joints. Xiao Man didn’t cry. Just quietly stared at the ceiling. Dr. Wang put away the stethoscope. Wrote a few lines in the chart. “The tremors are more frequent. Need to increase the phenobarbital by half a tablet. Has he been overworked lately? Caught a chill?”

“No.” Lin Chen shook his head. “He takes his medicine on time.”

Dr. Wang looked at him. Didn’t press further. Just wrote a prescription. “Go to the pharmacy. I’m prescribing three extra days’ worth. This medicine can’t be stopped. If it is, it can trigger a major seizure.”

Lin Chen took the prescription. Walked to the pharmacy window. Handed it over. The pharmacist was a middle-aged woman wearing sleeve protectors. She checked the prescription. Pulled a small glass bottle from the drawer. White pills inside. Counted them out. Packed them into a paper bag. “One yuan twenty fen.”

Lin Chen pulled coins from his inner pocket. Counted out one yuan twenty fen. Handed them over. Took the paper bag. His fingertips brushed the cool glass. He turned. Walked out of the clinic. The sunlight was harsh. He squinted. Slipped the bag into his schoolbag. Picked up his pace.

The town photo studio was next door to the clinic. A faded sign hung on the wooden door. He pushed it open. A bell chimed. The air smelled of acidic fixer. Old Li stood behind the counter, repairing a camera. Seeing him, he set down his tools. “Here for the deposit?”

“Yes. Two one-inch photos. For registration.” Lin Chen pulled a one-yuan bill from his inner pocket. Placed it on the counter.

Old Li took the money. Wrote out a receipt. Handed it over. “Pick them up the day after tomorrow afternoon. I’ll keep the negatives. No extra charge.”

Lin Chen took the receipt. The paper was thin, stamped with a red seal. He nodded. Turned and left.

The walk back. Two li. He moved slowly. His mind held no fatigue, only the abacus. One yuan twenty fen. Medicine cost. The shortfall in the ledger had grown again. But he didn’t stop. Health was the baseline. The baseline couldn’t be broken.

He pushed open the courtyard gate. His father was chopping wood in the yard. The axe fell. The wood split. A crisp sound. Seeing him, his father didn’t ask questions. Just leaned the axe against the wall. Turned toward the kitchen. Lin Chen set down his bag. Walked to the inner room. Fed Xiao Man his medicine. Opened the paper bag. Poured out half a tablet. Placed it in a small dish. Mixed it with warm water. Fed it to him. Xiao Man swallowed. Didn’t frown. He pulled the blanket over him. Movements gentle.

Back in the main room. Dusk had fallen. The kerosene lamp was lit, casting a dim yellow glow. He opened the error notebook. The four-hundred-twenty-word outline. Began transcribing. The pen tip touched the paper. Scratch. Scratch. The handwriting was neat. No cursive. No corrections. Opening. Development. Turn. Conclusion. Logical chain intact. All scoring points covered. He finished. Set down the pen. His finger joints were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees, slowly working them. The knuckles clicked faintly.

He picked up the pencil. Wrote in the ledger: Balance: 3.80 yuan. Shortfall: 1.20 yuan. Time: 4 days. The pen tip paused. He crossed out “1.20” and changed it to “1.20 + medicine fluctuation.” The county exam’s scoring rubric couldn’t be rushed. Rushing would break the rhythm.

The main room door hinge creaked. Lin Jianguo walked in. Carrying a bundle of freshly chopped wood on his shoulder. He set it in the corner. Glanced at the ledger on the table. Didn’t ask. Just said: “Old Li at the studio said the photos will be ready the day after tomorrow. Still short one yuan twenty fen for the registration fee.”

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

Lin Jianguo tapped his pipe ash. Turned toward the kitchen. The firelight illuminated his stooped back. Lin Chen lowered his head. Continued reading the error notebook. Outside, the sky darkened completely. The distant mountain silhouettes lay silent in the night. Lin Chen’s breathing gradually steadied. He knew tomorrow would be harder. But the numbers in the ledger were inching closer. Seven yuan. Not fallen from the sky. Pried from rust. Forged in sweat. One step, one mark.

Night wind slipped through the window crack. Stirred the ledger on the table. Pages turned, making a soft rustling sound.

From the inner room came a very faint cough. Xiao Man turned over. His breathing suddenly grew shallow. The tremors in his fingers widened again. Lin Chen didn’t open his eyes. His fingers slowly clenched under the blanket. 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 need recalculating.

Outside, clouds began to gather. The wind carried the damp, earthy smell of soil. Autumn rain was coming. The thirty-li county road would turn to mud once it rained. Lin Chen opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling. His mind held no complaints, only the route. Muddy road. Anti-slip. Straw sandals. Dry rations. Time. Everything was being recalculated. He closed his eyes. His fingers slowly unclenched under the blanket. Breathing steady. Tomorrow, at first light, he’d have to leave. The kiln road. The grain station water. The clinic medicine. The county exam’s scoring rubric. One step, one mark.