Chapter 18: Night Visit to the Field Ridge

1:50. Lin Chen opened his eyes.

No alarm clock. No sound. Outside the window, the rain had merged into a dense sheet of white noise, drumming against the roof tiles and streaming down the eaves gutters. He turned on his side, his fingers first finding the ledger beneath his pillow. The edges of the pages had softened from the damp. He didn’t turn on the light, relying only on the faint daylight filtering through the window to check the time. His muscles had already awakened ahead of schedule, the soreness suppressed into a thin layer of background static. He pushed back the quilt, moving with extreme lightness. The mud floor was icy cold; the hard scabs of blisters on his soles contracted slightly in the chill. He slipped on his straw sandals, wrapping the hemp rope tightly around his ankles and tying a slipknot. He bound his trouser legs with cloth strips just below his knees to prevent dew from seeping in.

He zipped the backpack all the way to the top. Error notebook, exam admission ticket, two sharpened pencils, half an eraser, a small folding knife. The weight was evenly distributed. He hefted it; the center of gravity rested squarely between his shoulder blades. Rations and a canteen were stowed in the side pocket, ready for quick access. He walked into the main hall. The kerosene lamp was unlit. His father wasn’t sitting on the threshold. From the kitchen came the faint sound of firewood being stirred. His mother was tending the fire.

Lin Chen pushed the door open. Cold wind laced with rain slapped his face, carrying a heavy scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The bluestone slabs in the courtyard had gathered a thin layer of water, reflecting the gloomy sky. He stepped over the threshold, his straw sandals sinking into the water. Mud immediately squeezed up through the gaps, but the tread on the soles gripped the stone without slipping. He glanced down. The mud was stickier than yesterday; traction remained, but resistance had increased. His stride needed to shorten by another two inches.

He walked north along the tractor path. The rain wasn’t heavy, but it was dense. His vision was compressed to five steps ahead. The distant bamboo forest had faded into blurred silhouettes. He navigated by memory and the feedback under his feet. The ruts on the path were already flooded; he avoided the center, sticking to the edges. The straw weave of the sandals had absorbed water, growing heavier, but they fit his feet more snugly. He controlled his breathing to one inhale every three steps. No stray thoughts in his mind. Only the route and the markers.

2:05. The orchard’s wire fence came into view. Southeast corner. The gap was there.

He stopped. Squatted down. Rainwater streamed down the wire fence, converging into a thin trickle at the gap. He reached out and touched the edge. The cut ends of the wire had rusted and curled inward; they wouldn’t tear his clothes. The width was about thirty centimeters. He turned sideways, passing the backpack through first. His body followed. His ribs brushed against the wire, a slight pinch, but passable. He shifted his center of gravity, leading with his shoulder, tightening his core, and stepping through one foot at a time. Upon landing, his soles sank half an inch into the soft humus. He pulled his foot out. No slip. Gap confirmed.

He stood up. Ahead lay the field ridge.

The ridge was narrow. At its widest, less than twenty centimeters. On both sides were irrigation ditches already overflowing, the water level nearly flush with the ridge surface. Knee-high foxtail grass and barnyard grass grew along it, their blades bent by the rain, heavy with droplets. Dew mixed with rainwater had soaked the soil into a slick, slippery paste. He took a deep breath. Lowered his center of gravity. Tested with his toes first. Probing the thickness of the mud layer.

First step. Sole landed. Mud enveloped the straw sandal. Slippery. He immediately shifted his weight forward, pressing his heel down. Stabilized. Second step. Switched feet. The straw tread of the sandal plowed two shallow grooves into the mud. It gripped. Third step. Fourth step. Rhythm established.

He moved slowly. Eyes fixed on the ground half a meter ahead. Didn’t look up. Didn’t look far. Only focused on the feedback from his soles. The mud layer was about three centimeters thick. Beneath it lay hard, compacted subsoil. The sandals could grip, but he had to maintain a constant pace. If he paused, his feet would sink into the paste. If he accelerated, his weight would shift forward, risking a slide into the ditch. He adjusted his breathing. Inhale, step, press weight down. Exhale, land, pull foot out. Movements like a calibrated machine.

Raindrops hit his face, icy cold. Grass blades brushed his calves, leaving damp, cold trails. He didn’t wipe them. Wiping would break his balance. He started timing in his head. From the gap to the midpoint of the ridge: about one hundred fifty steps. On a clear day, two minutes. Now, with increased mud resistance and shortened stride, he estimated three and a half minutes. He counted silently. One. Two. Three... One hundred twenty. One hundred thirty. One hundred forty-eight. One hundred fifty.

Reached the midpoint. He stopped. Turned around. The return route was identical. But physical fatigue had already begun to accumulate. His thigh muscles ached faintly. He kept walking. The mud on the way back had been compacted by his steps, making it more stable. But the water level in the ditch seemed to have risen slightly. He glanced down. Only a finger’s width remained between the water surface and the ridge top. If the rain continued for another two hours, the ridge might be submerged. He logged this variable.

2:23. Back at the orchard gap. He slipped through sideways. Stepped onto the tractor path. Total time: eighteen minutes. Two minutes less than the estimated twenty. But this was unladen. Adding weight, plus physical decline in the rain, the actual time would need to be increased to at least twenty-five minutes. He closed his eyes, recalculating in his head. Depart at 1:30 AM. Reach orchard at 1:35. Cross ridge at 2:00. Hit county road at 2:25. County road muddy, pace drops again. Reach west end of town at 4:50. Arrive at County No. 1 Middle School playground at 5:10. Time locked. Margin of error cannot exceed five minutes.

He turned back. His pace was faster than on the way out. His body had warmed up, sweat mixing with rain and plastering his back. When he pushed open the courtyard gate, it was 2:40.

The main hall was lit. His father sat by the stove, holding a dry cloth, wiping a pair of old rubber boots. Hearing the door, he looked up. Didn’t ask for the results. Just handed over the dry cloth.

Lin Chen took it. Wiped his face. Wiped his hands. Wiped the mud and water from his trouser legs. Movements swift. He walked to the earthen wall of the main hall. Picked up half a piece of chalk. Added annotations to the existing route map.

Orchard gap: 30cm. Passable. Field ridge: Width <20cm. Mud depth 3cm. Water level rising. Risk of submersion. Time: Unladen 18 min. Laden +7 min. Total 25 min. Departure time: 1:30.

He put down the chalk. His fingers were coated in white dust and muddy water. He walked to the water vat, washed his hands. Returned to the inner room, opened the ledger. On the back, he wrote: Route confirmed. Timeline advanced by 30 min. Backup med +0.5 tablet taken. Xiaoman’s breathing steady. The pen tip paused. He crossed out “steady” and changed it to “shallow and rapid.” His younger brother’s breathing rate was still too fast. The medication was suppressing it, but not curing it. He closed the ledger.

His mother walked in carrying a bowl of hot water. Placed it on the table. Two slices of ginger steeped in the water. She didn’t speak, only placed a folded piece of coarse cloth beside the bowl. The cloth was dry. Inside were two boiled eggs and a small packet of salt wrapped in oil paper.

Lin Chen looked at the cloth. His fingers tightened slightly. He didn’t say thank you. He simply tucked the cloth into a compartment of his backpack. Eggs for protein, salt to prevent cramps. His father and mother were filling the gaps in his calculations in the most silent way possible. He lifted the ginger water. Took a sip. The pungent heat slid down his esophagus, warming his stomach. He drank slowly. Every sip replenished lost body heat.

Finished, he returned to the inner room. Xiaoman was still asleep. A corner of the quilt had been kicked aside. He walked over, tucked it in properly. Placed his fingers on his brother’s wrist. The pulse beat fast, but the rhythm held. He stood by the bed for five seconds. Turned and went to the kitchen. The medicine bottle was on the windowsill. He unscrewed the cap. Poured out half a tablet. Placed it on a small dish. Mixed with warm water. Fed it to him. Xiaoman swallowed. Frowned slightly, but didn’t wake. He screwed the cap back on. Returned it to its place.

The clock in the main hall struck three. The rain showed no sign of easing. Wind slipped through the window cracks, carrying moisture that slapped his face. Lin Chen sat on the hard wooden bed. No sleepiness. His body had already shifted into standby mode. Muscles slowly repaired during rest. He closed his eyes. Ran through the entire route one last time in his mind. 1:30. Wake up. Put on shoes. Bind trousers. Carry water. Pack rations. Walk orchard. Cross ridge. Hit county road. Control stride. Even breathing. 4:50. West end of town. 5:10. County No. 1 Middle School. Submit paper. Go home. Buy medicine. Update ledger.

Every step was clear. No superfluous emotions. Only execution.

3:20. He opened his eyes. Got up. Changed out of the soaked straw sandals. Put on the old rubber boots his father had wiped dry. The boots had thick, slip-resistant soles, but they were heavy. He flexed his feet. Acceptable. Rechecked the backpack. The admission ticket was wrapped in two layers of oil paper, placed in the innermost compartment. Rations, canteen, salt packet, eggs—all positions fixed. He walked to the main hall. His father was already standing at the door. Holding a black cloth umbrella. Bamboo ribs, patched canopy.

“Take it.” His father handed over the umbrella. “There’s a low-lying stretch in the middle of the county road. Heavy rain, deep puddles. The umbrella won’t stop the rain, but it’ll block the splash. Can’t let your eyes get blurred.”

Lin Chen took it. The handle was icy cold. He nodded. Pushed open the courtyard gate. The rain was still falling. The sky was a thick, ink-blue. The distant ridgeline had blurred. He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle. Shouldered the backpack. Stepped out of the courtyard.

1:35. Tractor path. Mud and water had risen past his ankles. He walked steadily. Center of gravity low. The rubber boots sank into the mud with a dull squelch. Resistance was greater than the straw sandals, but support was better. He controlled his stride. Didn’t look back. Didn’t accelerate.

2:05. Orchard gap. Slipped through sideways. Rainwater from the wire fence dripped onto his neck, icy cold. He kept walking.

2:12. Field ridge. The mud layer had risen to four centimeters. The ditch water was nearly flush with the ridge surface. He glanced down. The water level was still rising. If the rain continued for another hour, the ridge would be submerged. He quickened his pace. But maintained the rhythm. Weight shifted forward. Soles pressed down. Mud enveloped. Pulled out. Repeat.

2:21. Reached county road. The soil here was harder, but thoroughly soaked by rain, forming a slick layer of mud on the surface. He switched to straw sandals. The rubber boots were too heavy for long-distance muddy trekking. He squatted down, changed shoes quickly. His fingers were stiff from cold, but his movements didn’t falter. Tied the hemp rope tight. Stood up. Kept walking.

The county road was worse than expected. Low-lying areas had pooled water. Depth reached mid-calf. He waded through. The current was swift, carrying silt that scoured his ankles. He stabilized his center of gravity. Avoided the soft silt at the bottom. Stepped only on stones and hard soil breaking the surface. Tilted the umbrella canopy. Blocked the rain slapping his face. Kept his vision clear.

3:40. West end of town. The sky began to pale gray. The rain eased slightly. But the wind grew colder. He quickened his pace. Muscles were numb, but the rhythm held. No fatigue in his mind, only markers. 4:50. From west end of town to County No. 1 Middle School: three li left. On a clear day, forty minutes. In rain, plus mud, plus weight, at least fifty minutes. He had to arrive before five. Late arrival meant disqualification. No exceptions.

4:15. The wall of County No. 1 Middle School came into view. Figures were already moving at the assembly point on the playground. Flashlight beams swept through the rain and mist. He quickened his steps. After switching from rubber boots to straw sandals, the blisters on his soles were ground raw with pain. But he didn’t stop. Pain was a signal. The signal meant he was still moving.

4:50. Playground. He closed the umbrella. Walked to the sign-in desk. The proctor was a middle-aged man with glasses, checking the roster. Seeing him, he looked up. “Name.”

“Lin Chen. Qingshi Village.” Voice hoarse, but clear.

The teacher flipped through the roster. Found the name. Checked it off. “Admission ticket.”

Lin Chen pulled the oil-paper packet from the inner compartment of his backpack. Opened it. The paper was dry. The writing clear. Handed it over. The teacher verified it. Nodded. “Go in. Exam Room 3. Second row from the back, by the window. Heavy rain, slippery roads, be careful.”

Lin Chen took back the ticket. Repacked it. Returned it to its place. Turned toward the teaching building. Scattered footsteps already echoed in the hallway. The air smelled of wet clothes and old wood. He found Exam Room 3. Pushed the door open. Fluorescent lights glared inside. He walked to the second row from the back by the window. Sat down. Placed his backpack in the desk cubby. Rations and canteen at his feet. Closed his eyes. Adjusted his breathing.

Rain still fell outside the window. Water on the playground had already spilled over the steps. He opened his eyes. Fished a pencil from his backpack. Wrote on scratch paper: Route time: 2 hours 15 min. Error: +5 min. Ridge water level critical. County road low-lying area deeply flooded. Pen tip paused. He crossed out “critical” and changed it to “submerged.” The ridge had been underwater after 3:00. He had crossed by stepping on the hard soil beneath. If he had been twenty minutes late, the route would have been void.

He put down the pen. Finger joints stiff. He placed his hands on his knees, slowly flexing them. Knuckles made faint clicking sounds. The fluorescent light in the classroom flickered once. The proctor walked in, holding a stack of sealed exam papers. The seal on the paper bag was intact.

“Put your backpacks at the front. Leave only stationery and admission tickets on your desks. During the exam, no whispering, no early submission. Exam starts at nine. Distributing papers now.”

Lin Chen placed his backpack beside the podium. Returned to his seat. The desk surface was cold. He took out his pencil and eraser. Placed the admission ticket in the top right corner. Breathing steady. No nervousness in his mind, only steps. Read prompt. Break down topic. Outline. Control word count. Verify scoring points. Check for typos. Submit. Go home. Buy medicine. Update ledger.

Papers were distributed. Sealed bags torn open. The sound of rustling paper echoed in the classroom. Lin Chen turned to the first page. Chinese. Essay prompt: The Power of the Collective. He stared at the prompt. Three seconds. The logic for breaking it down surfaced automatically. No empty slogans. Write about order. Write about the individual’s place within order. Write about support. Write about cost. He picked up his pencil. Wrote the first line on his scratch paper.

The pen tip touched the paper. Scritch. Scritch. Neat handwriting. No cursive. No corrections. The sound of rain outside was sealed off by the glass. Only the sounds of turning pages and writing remained in the classroom. Lin Chen’s breathing gradually synchronized with the rhythm of his pen. He knew this exam was only the first step. The deficit in the ledger remained. Xiaoman’s medicine couldn’t stop. Thirty li of muddy road still lay ahead. But the pen had already touched down. Step by step. Mark by mark.

9:00 sharp. The starting bell rang. Lin Chen looked up. His gaze swept over the paper. Question one. Question two. Question three. He lowered his head. Kept writing. The sky outside had fully brightened. The rain hadn’t stopped. Water on the playground had already spilled over the steps. From the end of the hallway came a rush of hurried footsteps. A boy, completely soaked, burst into the classroom. The proctor frowned. “Late by more than fifteen minutes. Not allowed to enter.”

The boy stood at the door. Lips pale. Fingers tightly clutching a soaked admission ticket. Rainwater streamed down his trouser legs. He didn’t speak. Just stood there. The proctor shook his head. Turned back to continue distributing papers. The boy slowly turned around. Walked down the stairs with heavy steps.

Lin Chen didn’t look up. His pen didn’t stop. He knew rules were rules. Late meant out. No exceptions. He kept writing. Question four. Question five. Essay outline. Four hundred twenty words. Structure complete. Logical chain closed. He finished. Put down the pen. Finger joints stiff. He placed his hands on his knees, slowly flexing them. Knuckles made faint clicking sounds.

Rain still fell outside. Water had spilled over the steps. From the end of the hallway came a low, rumbling roar. Not thunder. A tractor. A tractor stuck in the mud. The sound of the engine idling mixed with the rain, intermittent. Lin Chen looked up. His gaze pierced through the glass. On the county road outside the playground, an old tractor sat slanted in the mud and water. Wheels spinning. Mud splashing. The driver stood beside it, holding a shovel. Two people in raincoats stood nearby, directing.

The tractor blocked the middle stretch of the county road. The only passage. If the road remained impassable after the exam, the return trip would take at least an hour longer. Xiaoman’s medicine had to be taken at 3:00 PM. The ledger’s deficit had to be covered today. Lin Chen stared at the tractor. No anxiety in his mind, only routes. Detour. Orchard. Ridge. Water level submerged. Not feasible. Wade through. County road low-lying area. Water depth to knees. Feasible. But time-consuming. He had to depart immediately after submitting his paper. Couldn’t wait for the rain to stop. Couldn’t wait for the road to clear.

He lowered his head. Continued checking his paper. Typos. Punctuation. Scoring points. All verified. Pen tip paused. He crossed out an extra comma. Put down the pen. Breathing steady. He knew that finishing the exam was only the real beginning. Muddy roads. Puddles. Tractor. Water levels. Medicine costs. Ledger. Everything was being recalculated. He closed his eyes. Fingers slowly clenched under the desk. Knuckles turned white. Then relaxed.

The submission bell rang. Lin Chen stood up. Placed his paper on the desk. Picked up his backpack. Walked out of the classroom. Water in the hallway had already reached his ankles. He glanced down. The water was cold. He stepped forward. Walked into the rain. The tractor was still idling. Mud splashing. He bypassed the playground. Headed toward the county road. Steps steady. Center of gravity low. Breathing even. Step by step. Mark by mark.