Chapter 25: Scale and Blind Spot

3:25 p.m. The echoes of the class bell had not yet faded when the physics teacher walked onto the platform with a stack of lesson notes tucked under his arm.

He was a man of around fifty, wearing a Zhongshan suit washed so many times it had turned pale, the cuffs frayed into fuzz. He did not introduce himself. He turned and drew a set of axes on the blackboard. Chalk dust drifted down in soft showers, settling on the old lesson plans at the edge of the lectern.

“Uniformly accelerated linear motion. Acceleration. Derivation of formulas. Look at the board.” He spoke quickly, without pause. Classes at the county high school waited for no one.

Lin Chen opened a blank notebook. The tip of his pencil touched the paper. He drew along with the teacher. Horizontal axis. Vertical axis. Arrows. Labels. Velocity. Time. Slope. His wrist was steady, but his mind was rapidly breaking everything apart. The middle school in town had only taught uniform motion. Acceleration was a blank. He could not follow the derivation, so he only copied down the conclusions. Formulas. Conditions of application. Example problems. Steps. No skipped steps.

3:40 p.m. The teacher began working through an example. A car starts from rest with an acceleration of two meters per second squared. Find the displacement after five seconds.

Lin Chen’s pencil paused for a moment. He lowered his head and looked at his notes. In the blank margin, an extra line of tiny writing had appeared: Blind spot: concept of acceleration. Gap in progress: two weeks. Countermeasure: make up the basic definitions during evening self-study.

He did not look up. He kept copying. The given conditions of the example problem. The solving process. Unit conversions. Centimeters to meters. Seconds to hours. Problems at the county school assumed you already knew how to convert units. Exams in town would give you hints. The information gap was hidden in the details.

3:55 p.m. The dismissal bell rang. The teacher closed his lesson notes. “Homework: exercises one through five after class. Hand them in before morning study tomorrow. If you can’t finish, figure it out yourself.”

He walked out of the classroom. His footsteps were quick.

The sound of chairs scraping rose in the room. Some students started flipping through their exercise books. Some took out biscuits. Some quietly compared answers. Lin Chen did not move. He kept copying, filling in the final step of the example problem. Units. Period. The pencil tip tore lightly through the paper, leaving a faint indentation.

A boy in the front row turned around. In his hand was a book called Synchronized High School Physics Guidance. “Hey. New guy. Did you understand any of that?”

Lin Chen looked up. “Acceleration wasn’t explained clearly enough.”

The boy smiled. “They didn’t teach it in middle school, right? Normal. The county school moves fast. If you can’t keep up, you chew through it yourself. The library has reference books, but you have to fight for a seat.”

“Thanks,” Lin Chen said evenly.

The boy said nothing more. He turned back around and kept reading.

Lin Chen lowered his head, closed his notebook, and opened his ledger. The pencil moved quickly.

Day 5. 15:55. Physics class ended. Status: two weeks behind the pace. Blind spots: acceleration, force analysis, Newton’s second law. Countermeasures: take a front-row seat during evening self-study. Borrow reference books. Copy core example problems. Do not touch hard questions. Funds: meal tickets for 10 days. Daily average 0.60. Tonight’s dinner: 0.20 (vegetable dish + rice). Balance: 2.36.

The pencil tip stopped. He crossed out “Balance: 2.36” and wrote beside it: Margin for error: zero. Strategy: secure the basic questions. Abandon the final hard problems.

He closed the ledger. The joints in his fingers were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly worked them loose. Inside his Liberation shoes, the newly nailed-on sole pressed against the cracked skin. It hurt. But it could bear weight.

4:00 p.m. The second class of the afternoon. Chemistry.

The teacher was a young woman who spoke with the accent of the provincial capital. She lectured on the periodic table, atomic structure, chemical bonds. Lin Chen’s notes grew denser and denser. He stopped trying to understand every single term. He only seized the main frame. Element symbols. Valences. Chemical equations. Balancing. He was like a precision copying machine, transferring the words on the board onto paper exactly as they appeared.

4:45 p.m. Class ended.

He stood up, walked to the back door of the classroom, picked up the water bucket, and went downstairs. The water room was on the east side of the track field. Metal faucets. A very thin stream of water. He filled the bucket. It was heavy. His shoulders began to ache. He adjusted his balance and walked back one step at a time. Not a drop spilled.

Back in the classroom, he set the bucket beside the platform, picked up the board eraser, and wiped away the periodic table. Chalk dust settled on his cuffs. He did not brush it off. He just kept wiping. Corners. Cracks. No traces left behind. When he was done, he picked up a broom and swept the platform. Chalk stubs. Paper scraps. Dust. Swept it all into the dustpan. Dumped it out.

His movements were slow. But extremely steady.

5:00 p.m. The school bell rang.

The corridor instantly flooded with students. Footsteps. Voices. The clatter of lunch tins. Lin Chen walked close to the wall, avoiding the crowd. His canvas bag was propped over his head, blocking the cool evening wind.

The cafeteria was on the west side of the field. A single-story red-brick building. A long line stretched outside. Above the serving window hung wooden signs: Vegetable dish: 0.15. Meat dish: 0.40. Rice: 0.05. Soup: free.

Lin Chen stood at the end of the line. In front of him was a boy in a synthetic shirt holding an aluminum lunch box. Behind him was a girl with a ponytail, memorizing English words with her head lowered. He looked down at his own canvas shoes. The uppers were split. The soles were worn smooth. The edge of the newly nailed sole had already started curling up.

5:20 p.m. It was his turn.

“One vegetable dish. One rice.” He handed over his meal ticket.

The server gave him a look. The ladle trembled slightly. A scoop of cabbage, with very little broth, landed in his aluminum lunch box. Then came a scoop of rice, packed tight. It was handed out. “Next.”

Lin Chen took it, thanked him, turned, and walked to a long bench in the corner of the cafeteria. He sat down and opened the lunch box. Steam mixed with the earthy smell of cabbage rose up. He picked up his chopsticks and ate very slowly, chewing thoroughly. There was finally something solid in his stomach.

He did not drink soup. Soup filled the stomach but did not stave off hunger. He divided the rice in the lunch box into three portions. Ate one. Saved two. Wrapped them in oiled paper and put them in his canvas bag. One for before morning study tomorrow. One for noon.

The numbers in the ledger had to fit together without the slightest gap.

6:00 p.m. The preparatory bell for evening self-study rang.

The stream of people in the corridor began flowing back the other way. Footsteps grew heavier. Voices dropped lower. Lin Chen slung his canvas bag over his shoulder, pushed open the door, and walked into Class 1-3.

More than thirty students were already seated inside. The fluorescent tubes gave off a faint buzzing sound. The air smelled of old books and sweat. He went to the window seat in the last row and sat down. He put his canvas bag into the desk compartment and kept one hand pressed on it.

6:30 p.m. Evening self-study officially began.

The classroom was quiet. The only sounds were pages turning and pencil tips scratching across paper. The boy in the front row had already spread open his exercise book. Red and blue pencils and a ruler lay beside it. Lin Chen’s gaze swept over them without lingering. He just noted it. County kids had problem banks in their hands. Kids from town had only the standardized exam papers. The gap was not a gap in intelligence. It was a gap in training volume.

He opened his physics exercise book. Exercises one through five after class.

Question one. Basic concept. Fill in the blanks. He wrote. Question two. Plug in the formula. Compute. He wrote. Question three. Graph analysis. He got stuck. Acceleration-time graph. He had never learned it.

He put down his pencil and took a deep breath. No impatience. He opened a blank notebook, drew a question mark next to problem three, and wrote: Blind spot: a-t graph. Need to make up the basics.

He stood up, walked to the front row, and tapped on the boy’s desk.

The boy looked up. “What is it?”

“Let me borrow your reference book. Half an hour. I’ll return it.” Lin Chen’s voice was low.

The boy froze for a second and looked at his faded coarse-cloth shirt. Without a word, he pushed over Synchronized High School Physics Guidance. “Don’t dog-ear it. Don’t write in it.”

“Understood.” Lin Chen took it. The book was thick, with a hard cover and smooth paper. He flipped to the table of contents, found “Uniformly Accelerated Linear Motion,” and turned to the main text. He read the definitions. The graphs. The example problems.

He returned to his seat and spread the book open, comparing it with the exercise book. Problem three. The slope of the graph represented change in velocity. The area represented the increase in velocity. He understood it. He picked up his pencil and wrote out the steps. Drew the graph. Added labels. Calculated.

6:55 p.m. He finished problem three.

He turned to problem four. Force analysis. Inclined plane. Friction. He got stuck. The town middle school had never taught orthogonal decomposition.

He put down his pencil. He did not force it. In the notebook he wrote: Blind spot: orthogonal decomposition. Need to make up trigonometric functions in math.

There was not enough time. He skipped problem four and did problem five instead. Basic calculation. Finished.

7:00 p.m. He closed the exercise book and pushed the reference book back to the front row.

“Thank you,” he said.

The boy took it and flipped through it. No dog-ears. No writing. He nodded. “Your foundation is weak. But your head is clear. Don’t grind yourself to death on hard problems. Memorize the formulas first.”

“Mm,” Lin Chen said.

The boy turned back around and continued doing problems.

Lin Chen opened the ledger. The pencil moved across the page.

Day 5. 19:00. Evening self-study progress: physics questions 1-3 completed. Question 4 skipped. Question 5 completed. Blind spots: a-t graphs, orthogonal decomposition, trigonometric functions. Countermeasures: make up definitions during morning study tomorrow. Ask the teacher during break. Don’t drag it into the evening. Funds: dinner 0.20. Balance: 2.16. Meal tickets remaining: 9 days.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. The joints in his fingers were stiff. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly worked them loose. Inside his Liberation shoes, the newly nailed-on sole pressed against the cracked skin. It hurt. But it could bear weight.

7:30 p.m. Light coughing rose around the classroom. Some students began rubbing their eyes. Some yawned. The fluorescent light was a little harsh. Lin Chen did not stop. He opened the chemistry exercise book. Fill in the periodic table. Memorize valences. Balance chemical equations. He was like a machine. Repeat. Memorize. Recite in writing.

8:00 p.m. Middle stretch of evening self-study. Footsteps came from the corridor. The teacher on night inspection. Leather shoes striking the terrazzo floor at an even rhythm. He stopped at the door, looked inside once, said nothing, turned, and left.

Lin Chen’s pencil never stopped. He finished the chemistry homework, then opened his Chinese textbook. Classical Chinese. Encouragement to Learning. Recite. Write from memory. Wrong characters. Correct them.

9:00 p.m. Half an hour of evening self-study remained.

His eyelids began to droop. His stomach was empty again. The pain in the soles of his feet had turned into a constant dull ache, creeping up his calves. The muscles in his thighs were sour with fatigue. He adjusted his sitting posture, shifted his weight onto the other leg, did not lean against the chair back, sat upright.

He opened the ledger and wrote on the back: Plan for tomorrow: morning study 6:30-7:00. Make up physics definitions. Ask the teacher during break. Copy math formulas during lunch break. Balance chemistry equations during evening self-study.

The pencil tip stopped. He crossed out “Plan for tomorrow” and wrote beside it: Deadline: Friday monthly exam. Goal: top 30%. Path: secure the basics. Abandon hard questions.

He closed the ledger and raised his head. The fluorescent light was a little harsh. Outside the window, the sky was fully dark. The lights of the county town in the distance were sparse, like scattered stars.

9:20 p.m. The dismissal bell rang.

The sound of chairs scraping rose in the classroom. Some students stretched. Some packed their bags. Some muttered complaints about too much homework. Lin Chen did not move. He packed away his exercise books and put them into his canvas bag. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Arranged neatly in order.

He stood up, went to the back door of the classroom, picked up the water bucket, and went downstairs. Water room. Fill the bucket. Wipe the blackboard. Sweep the platform. Dump the trash. His movements were slow. But extremely steady.

9:40 p.m. Back in the dormitory.

Building Three, Room 402. The door was half ajar. He pushed it open. Eight iron-frame beds. Bunk beds. The bed by the window was already occupied; someone there was asleep, breathing evenly. He walked to the upper bunk by the door. The bedboard was made of wooden planks pieced together. Dust had gathered in the cracks. He put down his canvas bag, took out a washbasin, fetched water, and soaked his feet.

The cold water bit like ice. The cracks on the soles of his feet turned white from soaking. Tissue fluid seeped out. He did not touch them. He only soaked. Three minutes. Dried them. Changed to clean gauze. Dabbed on mercurochrome. The smell was sharp. He held his breath, spread it evenly, and wrapped the bandage.

His movements were slow. But extremely steady.

He lay down and closed his eyes. In his mind he arranged the next day’s schedule. Tomorrow, 6:30. Morning study. 7:00. Breakfast. 8:00. Class. One step, one mark.

The wind outside the window had died away. Moonlight shone across the cinder track. The chalk marks of the scale gave off a faint glow in the dark.

He slipped a hand into the pocket inside his clothes and touched the notice stamped with a red seal. The paper had already grown warm. The edges had curled slightly. He took it out, unfolded it, and read it carefully once more.

Registration. 8:00 a.m. Assemble with the town education group. Travel together to the county.

The time had come.

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

He closed his eyes. 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 sleep. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly worked them loose.

Footsteps came from the corridor, getting closer and closer. The teacher on night inspection. A beam of flashlight swept past the crack under the door and stopped outside.

“Get to sleep early. Don’t be late for morning study tomorrow.” The voice was low and echoed slightly.

“Got it,” the boy on the lower bunk answered vaguely.

Lin Chen said nothing. He only rested his hands on his knees and slowly worked them loose.

The footsteps went away. The flashlight beam vanished at the far end of the corridor.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger by the head of the bed. The pages looked faintly pale in the moonlight.

He reached out, found the pencil, and drew a very faint line across a blank page.

Day 5. End. Progress: two weeks behind. Blind spots: three. Funds: 2.16. Status: alive.

The pencil tip paused. He put the pencil down and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow. 6:30. Morning study. The physics teacher would collect homework. Problem four still was not done. Orthogonal decomposition. Trigonometric functions. He would have to make it up after lights-out. The dorm lost power at ten. A teacher patrolled the corridor at night. The stairwell had a blind spot in the surveillance. He would need half a candle. Use a piece of stiff cardboard to block the wind. Finish the calculations and leave immediately. He could not get caught.

He rested his hands on his knees and slowly worked them loose. The pain in the soles of his feet had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly worked them loose.

The wind outside the window had died away. Moonlight shone across the cinder track. The chalk marks of the scale gave off a faint glow in the dark.

He closed his eyes. In his mind he arranged the time. One step, one mark.