Chapter 28: Half a Candle in the Stairwell

The rain came earlier than the forecast.

Fine strands of rain slanted against the classroom windows, making a faint rustling sound. The dampness in the air grew heavier. Old book pages drank it in. Their edges curled. Lin Chen sat in the last row, his fingers so cold they had gone stiff, the joints showing bluish white. He tucked both hands into his sleeves and rubbed them alternately to keep the blood moving. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, his handwriting would shake. If it shook, the steps would go wrong.

Morning reading ended. The physics teacher came up to the platform with his lesson plan tucked under his arm. Chalk dust had fallen on his cuffs. He didn't brush it off.

“Today we're covering combined pulley-and-incline problems. Force analysis is the foundation. Dynamic equilibrium is the hard part. Look at the board.”

Lin Chen opened a blank notebook. The tip of his pencil touched the paper. He drew along with the teacher. An incline at thirty degrees. A fixed pulley anchored at the top. A thin rope running over the pulley. One end tied to a wooden block, the other to a hanging weight. The block was acted on by gravity, support force, friction, rope tension. He marked the arrows, set up a coordinate system. The x-axis parallel to the incline. The y-axis perpendicular to it. Resolve gravity. Write the equilibrium equations.

The teacher spoke quickly, without pause. Chalk traced continuous white lines across the blackboard.

“Pay attention. The direction of friction depends on the tendency of relative motion. Not which way the object is moving. Which way it wants to move. If the tendency is upward, friction points downward. If the tendency is downward, friction points upward. Get that wrong and the whole problem collapses.”

Lin Chen's pencil never stopped. In the margin of his notebook he wrote: Determining tendency: assume a frictionless surface. Check the direction of the resultant force. If the resultant along the incline points upward, the tendency is upward. Friction points downward.

A boy in the front row turned around, holding a sheet of scratch paper. “This one will definitely be on the monthly exam. The final question on last year's countywide test was this exact type. Twisted three different ways.”

Lin Chen looked up. “How?”

The boy slid the scratch paper over. Three diagrams were drawn on it. Different incline angles. The pulley in different positions. Different masses on the hanging weight. “The core never changes. It's all orthogonal decomposition plus critical conditions. But the exam is tight on time. You just transferred here. Don't die on the hard stuff. Lock down the basic problems for full marks. On the final question, write the first two parts. That can still get you half the points.”

“Mm,” Lin Chen said. His gaze stayed on the paper. He redrew the force lines on all three diagrams, linked the logic, broke the procedure into steps. He understood it. It wasn't that he couldn't solve them. It was that he couldn't solve them fast enough. The county school kids had drilled problem banks until it was muscle memory. He had only logic. Logic took time to verify. Time was a luxury.

He closed his notebook and opened the ledger. His pencil moved.

Day 8. Morning: caught up to physics class progress. Pulley + incline model mastered. Blind spot: judging dynamic critical conditions. Need extra example problems. Funds: balance 1.56. Meal tickets remaining: 5 days.

The pencil paused. He crossed out “Need extra example problems” and wrote beside it: Countermeasure: make up problems in the stairwell after evening study hall. Timed simulation.

Twelve noon. The dismissal bell rang.

The corridor flooded with people. Dense footsteps. Lin Chen slung his canvas bag over his back and walked close to the wall, avoiding standing water. Building Three to the cafeteria: one hundred twenty meters. On foot. Two and a half minutes.

There was a line at the cafeteria window. The writing on the wooden price board had blurred in the damp air. 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 track suit holding a stainless steel lunch tin. Behind him was a girl with glasses looking down at an English vocabulary booklet. He lowered his own head and looked at his canvas shoes. The tread at the edge of the soles had worn flat. The gauze stuffed into the crack had been soaked by the rain, its edges bleached white. The damp amplified the pain. But he didn't shift his weight. If his center of gravity moved, the pressure on the sole would go uneven. It would slip.

Twelve oh five. His turn.

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

The server glanced at him. The ladle trembled slightly. A scoop of shredded potatoes, with very little broth, dropped into the aluminum lunch tin. Then another scoop of rice, packed down hard. It was handed over. “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 tin. Steam rose, carrying the earthy smell of potatoes. He picked up his chopsticks and ate very slowly, chewing thoroughly, giving his stomach something to settle on.

He didn't drink soup. Soup filled the stomach without staving off hunger. He divided the rice in the tin into three portions. Ate one. Saved two. Wrapped them in oil paper and put them into his canvas bag for the afternoon and evening.

The numbers in the ledger had to fit with flawless precision.

The afternoon classes proceeded in order. Math covered trigonometric transformation formulas. Chemistry covered balancing redox reactions. Chinese covered function words in classical prose. Lin Chen's pencil never stopped. His notes were neat, with no scratch-outs. Wrong answers were marked in red, with the reason written beside them. No emotions written down.

Six thirty in the evening. Study hall began.

The classroom was very quiet. Only the sound of pages turning and pencil tips scratching over paper. The boy in the front row had already spread out a monthly exam review sheet, a timer placed beside it. Lin Chen's gaze swept over it without lingering. He only registered it. County kids had timers. Town kids had only their heartbeat. The difference wasn't intelligence. It was rhythm.

He opened his physics workbook. Composite problems six through ten.

Problem six. Basic force analysis. He wrote. Problem seven. Incline with a movable pulley. He wrote. Problem eight. Critical friction force. He got stuck. The object on the verge of sliding. Static friction at its maximum. He wrote the equations. Calculated wrong.

He set down his pencil and took a deep breath. No impatience. He opened a blank notebook and drew an X beside problem eight. Then wrote: Blind spot: critical conditions. Maximum static friction = μN. Need simultaneous equilibrium equations for forces.

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

The boy looked up. “What is it?”

“Can I borrow the reference book? Twenty minutes. I'll return it,” Lin Chen said, voice low.

The boy froze for a second and looked at his rough cloth shirt, washed so many times it had turned pale. Without speaking, 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 contents, found “critical problems,” and turned to the section. He read the definitions. The conditions. The worked examples.

He went back to his seat and spread the book open. Compared it with his workbook. Problem eight. Maximum static friction. Decomposed normal force. Simultaneous equations. He understood. He picked up his pencil and wrote the steps, drew the diagram, added labels, calculated.

Seven o'clock. Problem eight finished.

He turned to problem nine. Composite force analysis. He wrote. Problem ten. The final, hardest problem. He skipped it. He would not force it. In his notebook he wrote: Final problem. Give up. Protect the basic points.

Seven thirty. He closed the workbook and pushed the reference book back to the front row.

“Thanks,” he said.

The boy took it, flipped through it. No bent corners. No writing. He nodded. “You catch up fast. But don't get greedy. The monthly exam is tight. Leave ten minutes for the last problem. If you can't finish, at least write down the known conditions. You can still get method points.”

“Mm,” Lin Chen said.

The boy turned back around and kept working.

Lin Chen opened the ledger. His pencil moved.

Day 8. 19:30. Evening study progress: physics problems 6-9 completed. Problem 10 skipped. Blind spot: critical conditions. Patched. Countermeasure: memorize formulas during morning reading tomorrow. Ask teacher during break. Don't drag it to night. Funds: balance 1.56. Meal tickets remaining: 5 days.

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

Nine o'clock. Midway through evening study hall. Footsteps came from the corridor. The night-duty teacher. Leather shoes striking the terrazzo floor in an even rhythm. He stopped at the door, looked inside once, said nothing, and turned away.

Lin Chen's pencil never stopped. He finished his chemistry homework and opened his Chinese textbook. Classical prose. Exhortation to Learning. Memorization. Dictation. Wrong characters. Corrections.

Nine twenty. The dismissal bell rang.

Chairs scraped. Some people stretched. Some packed their schoolbags. Some muttered that there was too much homework. Lin Chen didn't move. He put away the workbook and slid it into his canvas bag. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Lined up in order.

He stood, walked to the back door of the classroom, picked up the bucket, and went downstairs. Water room. Filled it. Wiped the blackboard. Swept the platform. Took out the trash. Every movement was slow, but steady.

Nine forty. Back to the dormitory.

Building Three, room 402. The door was ajar. He pushed it open. Eight iron-frame beds. Bunks. The bed by the window was already occupied, its sleeper breathing evenly. He went to the top bunk by the door. The bed board was made of joined planks, dust gathered in the gaps. He set down the canvas bag, took out his washbasin, fetched water, and soaked his feet.

The cold water was piercing. The crack on the sole of his foot turned white from soaking, tissue fluid seeping out. He didn't touch it. Only soaked. Three minutes. Dried it. Wrapped it with fresh gauze. Painted it with red mercurochrome. The smell was sharp. He held his breath, spread it evenly, bandaged it.

Every movement was slow, but steady.

He lay down and closed his eyes. In his mind he arranged the time. Tomorrow, six thirty. Morning reading. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. One step, one imprint.

Outside the window the rain had stopped. Moonlight lay across the cinder track. Puddles reflected a cold sheen.

He slipped a hand into the pocket against his body and touched half a candle, wrapped in stiff cardboard, its edges already softened. He took it out, unfolded the wrapping, and examined it carefully.

Length: three centimeters. Diameter: 1.5 centimeters. Burning time: about forty minutes.

He wrapped the candle back up. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cardboard bit into his palm.

He closed his eyes. His breathing stayed even. The pain in the soles of his feet had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. He placed his hands on his knees and slowly worked them.

Footsteps came from the corridor, closer and closer. The night-duty teacher. The beam of a flashlight swept past the crack in the door and stopped outside.

“Go to sleep early. Don't be late for morning reading tomorrow.” The voice was low, echoing.

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

Lin Chen said nothing. He only kept his hands on his knees, moving them slowly.

The footsteps receded. The flashlight beam disappeared at the far end of the corridor.

He opened his eyes. His gaze settled on the ledger by the head of the bed. The pages shone faintly white in the moonlight.

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

Day 8. End. Progress: caught up two weeks. Blind spots: zeroed out. Funds: 1.56. Status: alive.

The pencil paused. He set it down and closed his eyes.

Tomorrow. Six thirty. Morning reading. The physics teacher would collect homework. Problem ten still wasn't done. The final problem. He would have to finish it after lights-out. Power in the dormitory cut off at ten. A night-duty teacher patrolled the corridor. In the stairwell there was a blind spot in the surveillance. He would have to bring the half candle and shield the flame with cardboard. Calculate it and get out. He couldn't be caught.

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

The wind outside stopped. Moonlight lay across the cinder track. Puddles reflected a cold sheen.

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

The next morning. Six twenty.

Lin Chen opened his eyes ten minutes early. No buffer. Consciousness cut straight from shallow sleep into wakefulness. The crack in the sole of his foot had dried overnight and scabbed over again. When he turned, it tugged at his ankle. The pain was sharp but controllable. He held his breath and sat up slowly. The dormitory was quiet. The boy in the lower bunk was still asleep. The two by the window were already up, folding their blankets. The air smelled of mothballs and old wood.

He felt for the canvas bag by his pillow. Ledger. Pencil. Half an eraser. Ruler. And the registration notice stamped in red. He checked them one by one and lined them up in order. Every movement was slow, but steady.

Six twenty-five. He pushed open the door. The corridor floor was terrazzo, its edges worn to a shine. Morning light slanted in from the window at the far end and fell across the duty roster on the wall. He walked close to the wall, leaning forward slightly, avoiding the water that had gathered in the gaps between the tiles. In his mind he arranged the time. Building Three to the washroom: fifty meters. Walking: two minutes. Washing up: five minutes. Back to the dorm. Get the lunch tin. To the cafeteria. Ten minutes. Six fifty. Classroom. Morning reading.

Wind crossed the cinder track, lifting fine gray dust. His fingers froze stiff, the joints dry and sore. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them alternately. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, his body temperature would drop quickly. In his head he was doing the accounts. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets: five days. Sixty cents a day. Materials fee already paid. The numbers in the ledger had to fit with flawless precision.

Six thirty-five. Washroom. Tin faucet. The flow was thin. He filled a basin with cold water. It cut like ice. He plunged his face into it, held his breath. Ten seconds. Lifted his head. Water ran down from his chin. He picked up the towel and dried himself quickly. No wasting the water's warmth.

Six forty. Cafeteria. A one-story red-brick building. A long line at the entrance. Above the serving window hung a wooden board: Vegetable dish: 0.15. Meat dish: 0.40. Rice: 0.05. Soup: free.

Lin Chen stood at the end of the line. Ahead of him was a boy in a synthetic shirt holding an aluminum lunch tin. Behind him was a girl with a ponytail bent over vocabulary words. He lowered his head and looked at his own canvas shoes. The uppers were split. The soles worn flat. The edge of the newly nailed-on sole had already started to curl up.

Six forty-five. His turn.

“One vegetable. One rice.” He handed over the meal ticket.

The server glanced at him. The ladle trembled slightly. A scoop of cabbage, with very little broth, fell into the aluminum lunch tin. Then a scoop of rice, packed down hard. Handed over. “Next.”

Lin Chen took it, thanked him, turned, and walked to the long bench in the corner of the cafeteria. He sat down and opened the tin. Steam rose, carrying the earthy smell of cabbage. He picked up his chopsticks and ate very slowly, chewing thoroughly, giving his stomach something to settle on.

He didn't drink soup. Soup filled the stomach without staving off hunger. He divided the rice in the tin into two portions. Ate one. Saved one. Wrapped it in oil paper and put it into his canvas bag for lunch.

The numbers in the ledger had to fit with flawless precision.

Seven o'clock. The warning bell for morning reading rang.

The stream of people in the corridor began to flow back. Footsteps grew heavier. Voices dropped lower. Lin Chen slung his canvas bag onto his back, pushed open the door, and stepped into Class 1-3.

More than thirty students were already seated. The fluorescent lights gave off a faint buzzing sound. The air smelled of old books and sweat. He went to his place in the last row by the window, sat down, and slid the canvas bag under the desk, his hand resting on it.

Seven oh five. Morning reading officially began.

Uneven voices rose in the classroom. English words. Classical prose. Physics formulas. Lin Chen didn't read aloud. He opened the physics workbook to problem ten and looked through the solution steps from the night before once more. The logic was clear. The steps complete. He picked up his pencil and wrote in the blank space: Core of the final problem: critical state. Maximum static friction. Simultaneous equations.

The boy in the front row turned around, a folded test paper in his hand. “Hey, new guy. Monthly exam on Friday. This is last year's real paper. Two hours, timed. Give it a try.”

Lin Chen looked up. “Thanks.”

The boy put the paper on his desk. “Don't copy the answers. Time it yourself. Not finishing is normal. Even the county high school's average is only seventy-five.”

Lin Chen lowered his head and looked at the paper. The pages had yellowed, the edges creased. Question one. Basic force analysis. Question two. Inclined plane and pulley. Question three. Critical friction. Question four. Composite final problem. He picked up his pencil and drew a coordinate system on scratch paper.

Eight o'clock. The class bell rang. The metal hammer struck the bronze bell. The sound was dull, with an echo.

He opened his eyes, sat up straight, opened the math textbook, and set the tip of his pencil to the page, ready to take notes.

Footsteps came from the corridor, closer and closer.

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

Outside, the sky had begun to darken. The clouds hung very low. White smoke rose from a distant chimney. The wind carried the damp, earthy smell of wet soil.

It was going to rain.

He slipped a hand into the pocket against his body and felt the notice stamped in red. The paper had grown warm. Its edges had curled slightly. He took it out, unfolded it, and read it carefully once more.

Registration. Eight in the morning. Gather at the town education office. Travel together to the county seat.

The time had come.

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

He stepped forward and entered the classroom.

The athletic field was large, paved with cinders. The track was packed yellow earth. Brick classroom buildings stood on either side. Some windowpanes were broken and patched with newspaper.

He followed the signs. Academic affairs office. Registration.

The corridor was full of people. Footsteps. Voices. Luggage knocking together. He kept close to the wall and avoided the crowd.

There was a line outside the academic affairs office. He stood at the very end.

The line moved slowly. He lowered his head and looked at his Liberation shoes. The uppers were split. The soles worn flat. The edge of the newly nailed-on sole had already started to curl up.

He placed his hands on his knees and slowly worked them.

Ten twenty. His turn.

He went in and handed over the notice and receipt.

The clerk took them and flipped through them once. The fingers were rough, black grime packed beneath the nails. “Scholarship student. Lin Chen.”

“Yes.” Lin Chen's voice was low.

The clerk took a form from the drawer and wrote on it with a fountain pen. “Dormitory. Building Three. 402. Top 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-hand corner of the form. The handwriting was neat. No corrections.

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

“Thank you.” Lin Chen nodded and turned.

The deadline had been lifted. Administrative procedures complete. But the gap in the ledger remained. Three point seven. It had to be filled today.

He went 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, covered by scholarship). Balance: 0.56 yuan. Emergency reserve: 5.00 yuan. Status: up to standard.

The pencil paused. He crossed out “up to standard” and wrote beside it: Dormitory: 402 top bunk. Class meeting: 14:00. Route: Building Three.

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

He followed the signs to Building Three. The stairs were concrete. The edges of the steps had been worn round. He climbed one step at a time. Breathing steady. No panting.

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

Eight iron-frame beds. Bunks. The bed by the window was already taken, covered with a brand-new blue-and-white checkered sheet. The pillow was stuffed with buckwheat husks. He went to the top bunk by the door. The bed board was made of joined planks, dust gathered in the cracks. He set down the canvas bag, took out a broom, swept the floor, wiped down the bed board, spread the mattress. Every movement was slow, but steady.

When the bed was made, he sat on the edge and took out the old dictionary from his canvas bag. He opened to the character county. So many strokes. He stared at it for a long time, tracing it slowly on his knee with his finger.

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

Outside the window the wind stopped. Sunlight fell across the cinder track. Chalked markings glimmered faintly in the shade.

He closed the dictionary, lay down, and shut 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 back down. He placed his hands on his knees and slowly worked them.

Footsteps came from the corridor, closer and closer.

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

One step, one imprint.