Chapter 22: Deadline Moved Up a Day

2:50 a.m. Lin Chen opened his eyes.

There was no transition. Consciousness cut into the darkness like a blade. The hard leather sole under his foot pressed against the cracks in the skin; the pain had already dulled into a steady, rhythmic throbbing. He sat up slowly. The kerosene lamp was unlit. Moonlight leaked through a hole in the window paper, casting a bleak white patch on the floor. He felt for the canvas bag at the head of the bed. Dry rations, a packet of salt, an empty medicine bottle, the account book. The pencil had been sharpened down to a stub, tape wrapped around the shaft. He tucked the bottle into his inner pocket, against his chest. Then he stood, got dressed. Every movement was light. From the main room came his father's suppressed cough, quickly muffled by the sound of coarse cloth shifting. His father was awake too.

3:05 a.m. He pushed open the door. The frost was heavier than the night before. The white crust on the field ridges cracked in fine little snaps beneath his feet. The soles of his Liberation shoes were hard leather studded with nails—good against slipping, but sharp at the edges. Every step felt like a dull knife scraping the tender flesh of his soles. He shifted his balance. Land on the balls of the feet. Avoid the gravel. Keep the breathing low. Three steps to inhale. Three steps to exhale. In his head he arranged the timing. From Qingshi Village to the town clinic: two and a half miles. The road was bad at night: fifty minutes. Arrive at 3:55. The clinic opened at four. Doctor Wang had a habit of arriving half an hour early. He could make it.

Wind poured down from the valley, carrying the smell of dead grass and frozen earth. His fingers were numb with cold, the joints stiff and sluggish. He shoved his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them in turns. He could not stop. If he stopped, his body heat would drop too fast. In his head he was doing the sums. Balance left: 11.40 yuan. Shortfall: 0.60. The medicine price had gone up. Doctor Wang had not named a figure, only said, “Increase the dose.” Phenobarbital, 0.08 yuan a pill. Three pills a day. Three days' worth. An increased dose meant going from three pills a day to four, or switching to a compound medication. Cost up at least twenty percent. A budget of twelve yuan was hanging by a thread.

4:00 a.m. The outline of the town clinic's iron gate appeared in the night. A dim yellow glow leaked from beneath it. He quickened his pace. Suddenly the pain in his soles sharpened; he stumbled half a step and caught himself against the wall. Steady. Don't pant. He reached the door and knocked. Three times, evenly spaced.

The door opened. Doctor Wang was in a white coat, enamel mug in hand. When he saw him, he frowned. “The Lin family's boy? You again?”

“For medicine.” Lin Chen handed over the empty bottle. “Xiaoman's prescription.”

Doctor Wang let him in. A stove was burning inside; the warmth mixed with the smell of disinfectant and mildew. He took the bottle and flipped through the medical record book. His fountain pen scratched across the page. “The seizures haven't become less frequent. Two attacks at night. The original dosage can't keep it down. It has to go up to four pills a day. Add half a diazepam tablet as support. I'll prescribe seven days' worth first.”

Lin Chen watched the pen tip. The numbers jumped out on the page. Phenobarbital, twenty-eight tablets. Eight fen each. 2.24 yuan. Diazepam, seven tablets. 0.12 yuan each. 0.84 yuan. Total: 3.08 yuan.

Doctor Wang tore off the prescription. “Get it from the dispensary. Three yuan and eight fen altogether. Cash.”

Lin Chen did not move. In his pocket his fingers pressed the folded wad of small bills. 11.40 yuan. Add the 0.60 he planned to earn today and it would make exactly twelve. The tuition deadline. The medicine cost 3.08. Shortfall: 2.48.

“Doctor.” Lin Chen's voice was low but clear. “Can I take three days' worth first? Twelve phenobarbital tablets, two diazepam. I'll make up the money by noon tomorrow.”

Doctor Wang stopped writing and looked at him. His gaze dropped to the mud-caked trouser legs and the worn-through uppers of his shoes. He was silent for a few seconds. “The rule is cash for medicine. But...” He sighed, turned, and pulled open a drawer. He took out a small paper packet. “Take three days' worth first. Twelve phenobarbital tablets, two diazepam. I'll put it on the account. By twelve noon tomorrow, one yuan and fifty-eight fen. After that, no exceptions.”

“Thank you.” Lin Chen took the packet and carefully checked the number of pills. Twelve. Two. Correct. He took out 1.58 yuan and placed it on the table. It was the loose money pieced together from selling bamboo baskets and carrying mail the day before, plus the two-fen coin his mother had slipped him that morning.

“Make sure he takes it on time when you get back. Don't let it stop.” Doctor Wang waved a hand. “It's cold and the road's slippery. Walk carefully.”

Lin Chen nodded and stepped back out. Cold wind rushed into his collar. He tucked the medicine packet close to his body and quickened his pace.

5:20 a.m. Back in Qingshi Village. The lamp in the main room was on. His mother was lighting the stove in the kitchen. His father sat on the threshold smoking a pipe of home-cured tobacco. The smoke curled in the dawn light.

Lin Chen went into the inner room. Xiaoman was still asleep, breathing evenly. He shook out half a tablet, crushed it, mixed it into warm water, and fed it to him. Then he tucked the quilt around him.

Back in the main room, he opened the account book. The pages were faintly damp from the night dew. He picked up the pencil.

Day 3. Before dawn: fetched medicine (prepaid 1.58). Balance: 11.40 - 1.58 = 9.82 yuan.

Tuition shortfall: 12.00 - 9.82 = 2.18 yuan.

Medicine balance due: 1.58 yuan (before 12 noon tomorrow).

Total shortfall: 3.76 yuan. Time remaining: 1 day.

The pencil paused. He crossed out “3.76” and wrote beside it: Route: unload grain sacks at the depot (2.20) + scrap iron from the brick kiln (1.00) + sell recyclables / odd jobs (1.10). Strength allocation: grain depot in the morning, brick kiln in the afternoon, scrap station in the evening.

He closed the book. His knuckles were stiff. He went to the water jar, scooped up some water, and washed his face. The cold bit like needles. The last trace of drowsiness vanished.

His father came over and handed him two boiled eggs and half a flat cake. “Eat before you go.”

Lin Chen took them. He ate slowly, chewing thoroughly. Something settled in his stomach. He slung the canvas bag over his shoulder and picked up the carrying pole.

“I'm not hauling water today,” he said. “I'm going to the grain depot. Carrying sacks.”

His father said nothing. He only tightened the hemp rope on the carrying pole once more. “Those soles are hard. Watch your step.”

6:40 a.m. Town grain depot. A Jiefang truck had already pulled in and stopped. The truck bed was piled with newly arrived burlap sacks of grain seed. Old Li, one of the loaders, was checking the count. When he saw Lin Chen, he handed him a pair of coarse cotton gloves. “A lot of cargo today. Fifteen fen a sack. Fifteen sacks. You taking it or not?”

“I am.” Lin Chen pulled on the gloves and went to the tailgate. Each sack weighed sixty jin—heavier than last time. He crouched, locked both hands under the bottom, tightened his waist and stomach, and lifted. The weight crashed down onto his shoulder. His collarbone went numb at once. The hard sole pressed against the cracks in his feet; pain shot up his calves like an electric current. He clenched his back teeth and stepped forward. Up the gangplank. Into the storehouse. Set it down. Turn around.

One sack. Two. Three. Sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes. It stung. He did not wipe it away. His breathing grew heavier and heavier. The muscles in his thighs began to burn. He adjusted the rhythm. Four. Five. Six.

The seventh sack. Ice had formed along the edge of the gangplank. His foot slipped. His body lurched violently. The sack slid from his shoulder and slammed onto the plank with a dull thud. Old Li ran over. “You all right? Take a breather.”

“Keep going.” Lin Chen's voice was hoarse. He gathered the sack up again. Lift. Walk. Set down.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Old Li finished counting and handed him two half-yuan notes and a one-yuan note. “Two yuan twenty-five. Seven-tenths extra. Call it hazard pay.”

Lin Chen took the money, folded it in half, and slipped it into his pocket. His steps were unsteady, but his direction was clear.

9:30 a.m. Brick kiln. The yard in back was piled with newly dismantled mold iron, more heavily rusted than before. He changed tactics. No unscrewing bolts. Just smash. He swung a hammer at the joints and let metal fatigue break them apart. Less efficient, but it saved strength. Twenty jin. Thirty. Forty. The gauze inside his shoes was completely soaked through. Blood and sweat crusted into a dark red shell on the uppers. He leaned against a stack of bricks, panting. He licked a little salt. The taste jolted his tongue. His stomach churned violently. He swallowed and kept going.

2:00 p.m. Finished work. Sold for 1.10 yuan. Added to the 2.25 from the morning, that made 3.35 yuan.

The shortfall was still 0.21.

2:40 p.m. Scrap station. The fat owner was taking in goods. When he saw Lin Chen, he handed him a cup of hot water. “Your face is white. Don't force yourself too hard.”

“Any waste paper?” Lin Chen asked.

“In the storeroom there's a bundle of old newspapers. Thirty jin. Eight fen a jin. Two yuan forty. Take the whole lot and I'll count it as two fifty.”

Lin Chen nodded and went to the storeroom. The newspapers were bundled tight. He untied the hemp rope and dragged them bundle by bundle onto the scale. Weighed. Paid.

3.35 plus 2.50 made 6.85 altogether.

He walked to the shoe-repair stall at the street corner. The old cobbler was packing up. “Sir. Patch these shoes. Ten fen.”

The old man looked at them. “The soles are nearly through. Patching won't help much. Ten fen? Fine.”

Lin Chen sat down and took off his shoes. The cracks in his soles had turned white, the edges curled upward. The old man sucked in a breath. “Heaven have mercy.”

Lin Chen said nothing. He handed over the thread and needle. The old man threaded the needle, drew the cord through, nailed on the patch sole, reinforced it. Twenty minutes. The shoes were mended.

“Ten fen,” the old man said.

Lin Chen handed over the coin, put the shoes back on, laced them tight, and stood up. The pressure on his soles had changed. Hard—but walkable.

He was still short 0.11.

He went to the town post office. A hiring notice was posted at the entrance: Parcel sorting. Two hours. Fifteen fen.

He went in. Worked. Sorted. Carried. Loaded carts. Sweat soaked through his coarse shirt, and when the wind hit it, it turned icy cold. 4:00 p.m. The job was done. The supervisor handed him a fifteen-fen note.

Lin Chen took it, folded it in half, and slipped it into his pocket.

At last, the numbers in the account book balanced.

5:00 p.m. Back in Qingshi Village. The lamp in the main room was lit. His mother was cooking rice porridge in the kitchen. The smell of fried pork scraps drifted out. His father was repairing farm tools. Xiaoman was in the inner room, quietly playing with building blocks.

Lin Chen went to the earthen wall, picked up the chalk, and updated the account.

Day 3. Morning: grain depot sack-hauling (2.25). Afternoon: scrap iron dismantling (1.10) + old newspapers (2.50) + shoe repair (-0.10) + post office sorting (0.15).

Balance: 9.82 + 5.90 = 15.72 yuan.

Tuition: 12.00 yuan. Medicine balance due: 1.58 yuan. Remaining: 2.14 yuan.

Status: target met.

The chalk paused. He crossed out “target met” and wrote beside it: Tomorrow: pay tuition. Settle medicine balance. Prepare dry rations.

He closed the account book. His knuckles were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. Inside the Liberation shoes, the newly nailed patch soles pressed against the cracks in his feet. Painful—but they could bear weight.

His father came over and crouched down, looking at his feet. “Patched the shoes again.”

“Mhm,” said Lin Chen. “They'll last until registration.”

His father said nothing. He only pulled a small cloth packet from inside his jacket and opened it. Inside were five yuan, crisp notes folded neat and square. “Your mother saved this. Use it on the road.”

Lin Chen looked at the money and did not take it. “The tuition is enough.”

“Take it.” His father stuffed the cloth packet into his hand. “The county isn't like the town. Food, water, lodging—they all cost money. Don't go hungry.”

Lin Chen's fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth packet bit into his palm. He nodded. “Mm.”

8:00 p.m. Footsteps sounded outside the courtyard gate. It was the village head, holding a red-headed official notice. “Boy from the Lin family. County No. 1 Middle School's notice came down. Registration's been moved to the day after tomorrow. One day earlier. Bring all your documents. Don't be late.”

Lin Chen took the notice. The paper was thin, the edges sharp. He read it through carefully. The day after tomorrow. 8:00 a.m. Assemble at the town education office. Transport to the county seat would be arranged together.

The time had been moved up by a day.

He walked to the earthen wall, picked up the chalk, and wrote a new mark beside the route plan already there: November 6. 8:00 a.m. Town education office. Assemble.

The chalk paused. He crossed out “November 6” and changed it to “November 5.”

He set the chalk down and turned around. His father stood in the doorway, the tobacco pipe turning once in his hand.

“Got it,” his father said.

Lin Chen went to the table, opened the account book, and wrote on the back: New variable: registration moved up. Time conflict: tomorrow must pay tuition, settle medicine balance, prepare dry rations, pack luggage. Solution: depart at 4:00 a.m. Execute in parallel.

He closed the account book and lifted his head. The flame in the kerosene lamp jumped once. Outside the window the night was thick. Wind slipped through the cracks, carrying the cold with it.

Tomorrow, he would have to get up early.

He went to the water jar, scooped up a dipperful, and splashed it onto his face. Droplets ran down from his jaw. The last trace of sleepiness was forced down completely.

Five yuan. One day. Registration. One footprint after another.

He dried his face and returned to the inner room. Xiaoman was already asleep, breathing evenly. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took the old dictionary out of his canvas bag. He flipped to the character for “county.” It had many strokes. He looked at it for a long time, tracing it slowly on his knee with one finger.

One stroke. One horizontal. One vertical. One turning stroke.

Outside, the wind had stopped. Moonlight shone on the earthen wall. The chalk marks there gave off a faint pale gleam in the dark.

He closed the dictionary, lay down, and shut his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would go to the county seat.