Chapter 23: Steps at the Town Entrance

3:50 a.m. Lin Chen opened his eyes.

There was no buffer. Consciousness cut straight into the dark. The hard cowhide sole under his foot had already grown together with the split flesh beneath it; when he turned over, it tugged at the fascia, the pain sharp but familiar. He held his breath and slowly sat up. The kerosene lamp was unlit. From the main room came the faint sound of his mother moving about—the bellows in the kitchen. His father sat on the threshold of the main room, the long-stemmed pipe unlit, only pinched in his hand.

He felt for the canvas bag by the head of the bed. Dry rations, a packet of salt, an empty medicine bottle, the ledger, a pencil. And that registration notice stamped with a red seal. He checked each item one by one and arranged them in order. His movements were slow, but extremely steady.

Four o’clock sharp. He pushed the door open. The frost was heavier than last night. The white crust on the ridge of the fields gave a brittle crack beneath his feet. He adjusted his center of gravity, landing on the balls of his feet to avoid the gravel. In his head he was running through the timing. From Qingshi Village to the town clinic: five li. Night road: fifty minutes. Arrive at 4:50. The clinic opened at five. Doctor Wang was in the habit of arriving a quarter of an hour early. He could make it.

The wind poured down from the mountain valley, carrying the smell of dead grass and frozen earth. His fingers were stiff with cold, the joints rough and sluggish. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them in turns. He could not stop. If he stopped, his body temperature would fall too fast. In his head he was doing the accounts. Balance: 2.14 yuan. Remaining medicine payment: 1.58. Tuition: 12 yuan. The 5 yuan emergency money his father had given him could not be touched. That was for food on the road and emergencies. The numbers in the ledger had to fit without the slightest gap.

4:50. The outline of the clinic’s iron gate appeared in the night. A dim yellow light showed beneath the crack of the door. He quickened his pace. The pain in the sole of his foot suddenly sharpened; he staggered half a step and caught himself against the wall. Steady. Don’t pant. He went to the door. Knocked. Three times. Evenly spaced.

The door opened. Doctor Wang was wearing a white coat and holding an enamel mug. When he saw him, his brows drew together. “The Lin boy? Why is it you again?”

“To pay the balance. And pick up the medicine.” Lin Chen handed over one yuan and fifty-eight fen. The banknotes were folded square, the edges unfrayed.

Doctor Wang took them and held them to the light. Then he turned, pulled open a drawer, and took out a kraft-paper packet. “Seven days’ worth. Twenty-eight phenobarbital tablets, seven diazepam tablets. Give them on time. Don’t stop. If the convulsions come again at night, add half a diazepam tablet. No more than that.”

“Thank you.” Lin Chen took the packet. He carefully checked the number of tablets. Twenty-eight. Seven. Correct. He tucked it close to his body. Through the coarse cloth of his shirt, he could feel the hard corners of the pills.

5:20. Back in Qingshi Village. The lamp in the main room was lit. His mother was cooking porridge in the kitchen. The fragrance of rendered lard scraps drifted out mixed with the smell of firewood. His father sat on the threshold, smoking his pipe. The smoke coiled in the morning light.

Lin Chen went into the inner room. Xiaoman was still asleep. Her breathing was steady. He poured out half a tablet, crushed it, mixed it with warm water, and fed it to her. Then he tucked the blanket over her.

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

Day 4. Before dawn: paid remaining medicine balance (1.58). Balance: 2.14 - 1.58 = 0.56 yuan. Tuition: 12.00 yuan (fully prepared). Emergency fund: 5.00 yuan (untouched). Status: tuition pending.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His finger joints were stiff. He went to the water jar, scooped up water, and washed his face. The cold water cut like ice. The last traces of sleep vanished completely.

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

Lin Chen took them. He ate very slowly, chewing thoroughly. Once there was something in his stomach, he slung the canvas bag onto his back and picked up the carrying pole.

“I’m not hauling water today,” he said. “I’m going to pay the tuition.”

His father said nothing. He only tightened the hemp rope on the carrying pole once more. “The soles are hard. Walk steady.”

6:40. Town Central Primary School. The door to the accounts office was still closed. Lin Chen stood in the corridor and waited. Wind swept across the empty playground, stirring up chalk dust from the ground. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. In his head he ran through today’s sequence. Pay the tuition. Get the receipt. Go back to the village. Pack. Dry rations. Water. Reach the town education office before eight. The timing was cut very close. He could not get a single step wrong.

Seven o’clock sharp. The office door opened. The woman accountant in glasses came out with a ring of keys in her hand. Seeing him, she paused. “So early?”

“To pay the tuition.” Lin Chen handed over twelve yuan. The banknotes were folded square.

The accountant took them, counted them, opened the drawer, and drew out a receipt. She filled it in with a fountain pen, her handwriting neat. “Lin Chen. Qingshi Village. Twelve yuan in full. Received.” Then she stamped it with the finance seal. The inkpad was blue, fresh.

“Keep it safe. Don’t lose it. They’ll check it at registration.”

“Thank you.” Lin Chen took it and carefully checked whether the seal was clear. It was. He folded it and slipped it into the pocket against his chest.

7:20. He turned and headed back. His steps quickened. But his body had already reached its limit. The bandages under his feet were soaked through. Bloody fluid had seeped through the canvas shoes, spreading dark red patches across the gray-white cloth. Every step felt like treading on shattered glass. He clenched his teeth and did not slow down. In his head he kept calculating. Back to the village. Pack. Dry rations. Water. Reach the town education office before eight. Time was enough. Strength was not. He had to ration every step.

7:50. Back in Qingshi Village. The light in the main room was on. His mother was making flatbreads in the kitchen. His father was repairing farm tools. Xiaoman was in the inner room, quietly playing with building blocks.

Lin Chen went to the mud wall and picked up the chalk. He updated the ledger.

Day 4. Morning: paid tuition (12.00). Balance: 0.56 yuan. Emergency fund: 5.00 yuan. Status: target met.

The pencil tip paused. He crossed out target met and wrote beside it: Pack. Dry rations. Water. Depart 7:50.

He closed the ledger. His finger joints were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. Inside the Liberation shoes, the newly nailed sole pressed against the cracks in his feet. It hurt. But it could still bear weight.

His mother came over and handed him a coarse cloth bundle. “Flatbreads. Six. Salt. One packet. Water bottle. Filled to the top.”

Lin Chen took it and weighed it in his hand. The weight was right. He opened the bundle and checked it. The flatbreads were wrapped in oiled paper, edges sealed. The salt packet was tied tight with hemp cord. The canteen was an old military water bottle, lid screwed on tight. He wrapped it up again and put it into the canvas bag.

His father came over and handed him a carrying pole. “If you get tired on the road, rest for a while. Don’t force it.”

“I’m not tired,” Lin Chen said. “I can make it.”

His father said nothing. He only took out that cloth packet with the five yuan from inside his jacket and pressed it back into his hand. “The county’s not like the town. Food. Water. Lodging. Everything costs money. Don’t go hungry.”

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

7:50. Footsteps sounded outside the courtyard gate. It was the village head. In his hand was a list. “Lin family boy. The education office truck is almost here. Bring your things. Gather at the town entrance.”

Lin Chen took the list. The paper was very thin. Its edges were sharp. He read through it carefully once. Qingshi Village. Lin Chen. Report for enrollment.

He went to the mud wall, picked up the chalk, and beside the route map already there, wrote a new marker: 7:55. Town entrance. Assemble.

The chalk paused. He set it down and turned around. His father stood in the doorway, rolling the pipe around once in his hand.

“Understood,” his father said.

Lin Chen went to the table, opened the ledger, and on the back wrote: New variables: none. Time conflicts: none. Solution: execute according to schedule.

He closed the ledger and raised his head. The kerosene flame flickered once. Outside the window, the sky had already gone pale. Wind came through the cracks in the frame, carrying the cold with it.

He went to the water jar, scooped up a dipperful, and splashed it onto his face. Beads of water ran down his jaw. Sleepiness was crushed completely.

Five yuan. One day. Registration. One step, one imprint.

He dried his face, slung the canvas bag over his back, and pushed the door open.

The frost on the field ridges had already melted, exposing the wet black earth beneath. He walked very steadily, leaning his center of gravity forward, avoiding the wet mud at the edges of the ridges. In his head he was laying out the route. From Qingshi Village to the town entrance: three li. The field ridges were shorter, but narrow. He could not fall. If the canvas bag got wet, the dry rations would be gone. He lifted the bag onto his head, arms spread for balance. One step. Two steps. White breath bloomed before his eyes and was instantly shredded by the cold wind. The cracks on the soles of his feet rubbed again and again against the shoe uppers; the seeped tissue fluid stuck the gauze to the wounds, and every step felt like fine needles driving into flesh. He ignored it. He looked only three meters ahead.

8:05. Beneath the old locust tree at the town entrance, a Jiefang truck was already waiting. The truck bed was lined with straw. Seven or eight half-grown children stood by the side of it. Some wore brand-new synthetic shirts, some carried canvas schoolbags, some held aluminum lunch tins. When they saw him coming, their eyes swept over his mud-caked Liberation shoes and frayed trouser legs, then quickly moved away.

Lin Chen walked to the truck bed, set his canvas bag on the straw, and sat down. His back rested against the sideboard. The pain in the soles of his feet was beginning to turn into a continuous dull ache climbing up his calves. The muscles in his thighs burned with fatigue. He adjusted his breathing. Inhale every three steps. Exhale every three steps. In his head he counted the timing. Assemble at eight. Depart at eight-thirty. To County No. 1 Middle School: thirty li. Road conditions unknown. Energy allocation: conserve strength in the first half, rely on momentum in the second.

8:20. A man in a gray uniform came over with a list in his hand. “Qingshi Village. Lin Chen.”

“Present.” Lin Chen stood up.

The man looked at him, his gaze falling on the mud-streaked trouser legs and the worn shoe uppers. He said nothing. He only ticked a check mark on the list. “Get on. Sit steady. The road’s rough.”

Lin Chen nodded and climbed into the truck. More than a dozen people were already sitting inside. He chose a spot near the edge and sat down. The canvas bag rested on his lap, his hand pressed over it.

8:30. The truck started. The roar of the diesel engine was deafening. The truck bed began to jolt and bounce. Straw flew up and settled onto hair and shoulders. Lin Chen closed his eyes. In his head he ran through today’s sequence once more. Pay the tuition. Get the receipt. Pack. Dry rations. Water. Assemble. Board the truck. Reach County No. 1 Middle School. Register. One step, one imprint.

Wind poured in through the gaps in the truck bed, carrying diesel fumes and the smell of dust. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them to keep the blood moving. He could not sleep. If he slept, his legs would stiffen by the time he got off. He opened his eyes and let his gaze pass over the others in the truck. Some were dozing. Some were eating flatbreads. Some were talking in low voices. He listened without joining in. He only remembered.

“The dorms at County No. 1 are eight to a room. Bunk beds. You have to make your own bed.”

“You have to buy meal tickets in advance at the cafeteria. Twenty cents a meal. Sixty cents a day.”

“The homeroom teacher’s surname is Chen. He teaches math. Fierce as hell. Don’t provoke him.”

On his knee, Lin Chen’s fingers slowly traced strokes. One stroke. One horizontal. One vertical. One turn.

The jolting of the truck grew more violent. The cracks in the soles of his feet were squeezed again and again; the stabbing pain turned into a sharp tearing sensation. He clenched his molars. He made no sound. He only shifted his sitting posture, moving his weight onto the other leg.

9:00. The truck drove out past the town entrance and onto the county road. The road surface was wider, but full of more potholes. The wheels rolled over crushed stone with heavy, muffled impacts. Lin Chen opened his eyes and looked past the sideboard. The mountains in the distance rose and fell in the morning mist. At the far end of the county road, a cluster of gray-white buildings could just be made out.

County No. 1 Middle School.

He slipped a hand into the pocket against his chest and felt the registration notice stamped with the red seal. The paper had already grown warm. Its edges had begun to curl. He took it out, unfolded it, and read it carefully once.

Report for enrollment. 8:00 a.m. Gather at the town education office. Transportation to the county arranged collectively.

The time had come.

He folded the notice and put it away again. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth packet bit into his palm.

The truck kept moving forward. Jolting. Roaring. Wind came through the gaps in the truck bed, carrying the breath of dust.

He closed his eyes. In his head he arranged the timing. Nine o’clock departure. Thirty li. Road conditions unknown. Energy allocation: conserve strength in the first half, rely on momentum in the second.

One step, one imprint.

The noise in the truck bed was gradually drowned out by the roar of the diesel engine. Lin Chen leaned against the sideboard. His breathing was steady. The pain in the soles of his feet had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sit down—he kept his hands on his knees, slowly moving them.

Outside the scenery began to change. The yellow dirt road became asphalt. Farmland became factory buildings. White smoke rose from distant chimneys.

County road. Thirty li.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on a corner of the truck bed. A boy in a blue cloth jacket was leafing through a dictionary. The character had many strokes. Lin Chen watched for a long time, slowly tracing it on his knee with his finger.

One stroke. One horizontal. One vertical. One turn.

The truck jolted more and more violently. The cracks in the soles of his feet were squeezed again and again. He clenched his molars and made no sound.

9:45. The truck entered the county seat. The streets widened. On both sides stood brick-and-concrete buildings. The supply and marketing cooperative. The post office. Xinhua Bookstore. The characters on the signs were clear.

Lin Chen’s gaze swept across the street. It did not linger. It only recorded.

10:00. The truck stopped at the gate of County No. 1 Middle School. The iron gate stood open. Hanging above it was a wooden sign that read Qinghe County No. 1 Middle School. The paint was already peeling.

The children in the truck bed began to rise, gather their luggage, and climb down.

Lin Chen stood up, slung the canvas bag onto his back, and jumped down from the truck. When his feet hit the ground, the hard cowhide sole pressed against the cracks in the flesh. Painful. But it could bear weight.

He stood at the gate and looked up at the wooden sign.

County No. 1 Middle School.

He slipped his hand into the pocket against his chest and felt the registration notice stamped with the red seal. The paper had already grown warm. Its edges had begun to curl. He took it out, unfolded it, and read it carefully once.

Report for enrollment. 8:00 a.m. Gather at the town education office. Transportation to the county arranged collectively.

The time had come.

He folded the notice and put it away again. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth packet bit into his palm.

He stepped forward and walked through the school gate.

The athletic field was huge, covered in cinders. The running track was packed yellow earth. Brick classroom buildings stood on both sides. Some windowpanes were broken and patched with newspaper.

He followed the signs. Academic Affairs Office. Registration.

The corridor was crowded. Footsteps. Voices. The clatter of luggage striking against things. He kept close to the wall, avoiding the crowd.

A line had formed outside the Academic Affairs Office. He stood at the back.

The line moved slowly. He lowered his head and looked at the Liberation shoes on his feet. The uppers were split. The soles were worn flat. The edges of the newly nailed sole were already curling up.

He rested his hands on his knees and slowly moved them.

10:20. His turn.

He went inside and handed over the notice and the receipt.

The clerk took them and flipped through them. His fingers were rough, black mud lodged under the nails. “Scholarship student. Lin Chen.”

“Yes.” Lin Chen’s voice was quiet.

The clerk took a form from the drawer and filled it in with a fountain pen. “Dormitory. Building Three. Room 402. Upper bunk. Meal tickets. One week’s worth. Six yuan, deducted from scholarship. Sign here.”

Lin Chen took the pen and wrote his name in the lower right corner of the form. His handwriting was neat. There were no corrections.

“Take it. Go to Building Three and get the key from the dorm supervisor. Class meeting at two in the afternoon. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you.” Lin Chen nodded and turned.

The deadline pressure was gone. The administrative procedures were complete. But the gap in the ledger was still there. Three yuan seven. It had to be filled today.

He walked to the end of the corridor and opened the ledger. The pages were slightly damp with sweat. He picked up the pencil.

Day 4. Morning: paid tuition (12.00). Paid remaining medicine balance (1.58). Received meal tickets (-6.00, deducted from scholarship). Balance: 0.56 yuan. Emergency fund: 5.00 yuan. Status: target met.

The pencil tip paused. He crossed out target met and wrote beside it: Dormitory: 402 upper bunk. Class meeting: 14:00. Route: Building Three.

He closed the ledger. His finger joints were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly moved them. Inside the Liberation shoes, the newly nailed sole pressed against the cracks in his feet. It hurt. But it could bear weight.

He followed the signs. Building Three. The staircase was concrete, its edges already worn round. He went up one step at a time. His breathing was steady. He did not pant.

Fourth floor. 402. The door was ajar. He pushed it open.

Eight iron-frame beds. Upper and lower bunks. The beds by the window were already taken, covered with brand-new blue-and-white checked sheets. The pillow was stuffed with buckwheat husks. He went to the upper bunk near the door. The bedboard was made of wooden planks pieced together, dust gathered in the cracks. He set down the canvas bag, took out a broom, swept the floor, wiped down the bedboard, and spread out the bedding. His movements were slow, but extremely steady.

When the bed was made, he sat on the edge of it and took that old dictionary from the canvas bag. He turned to the character for “county.” It had many strokes. He looked at it for a long time, slowly tracing it on his knee with his finger.

One stroke. One horizontal. One vertical. One turn.

Outside the window, the wind had stopped. Sunlight fell across the cinder track. The chalk-drawn markings glimmered faintly in the shade.

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

Two in the afternoon. Class meeting.

He opened his eyes and sat up. The pain in the soles of his feet had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sit still. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly moved them.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Closer and closer.

He stood up, slung the canvas bag onto his back, and pushed the door open.

One step, one imprint.