Chapter 32: Rain Lines and Gradations

Six-thirty. The alarm did not ring. Lin Chen woke on his own.

Outside the window was the sound of rain. Fine. Dense. Unending. Tapping against the glass. No rhythm. Only a continuous white noise. The air was heavy with dampness. The edge of the blanket had turned moist. He opened his eyes. The water stain on the ceiling had spread another ring since yesterday. Like a blurred map. He sat up. The crack in the sole of his foot throbbed beneath the gauze. The pain was still there. But he was used to it now. Like background noise. It did not interfere with judgment. He felt for the canvas bag by the bed. Ledger. Pencil. He crossed out yesterday’s plan and wrote: Day 12. 06:30. Goal: monthly exam. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Untouchable. Reserve.

He washed his face with cold water. The water in the tin basin carried a metallic chill. He wrung out the towel. Dragged it over his cheeks. Took away the remnants of sleep. He put on his Liberation shoes. The edges of the soles had already been flattened. The crack avoided the load-bearing point. He leaned his weight forward. Pushed open the door. The corridor floor was terrazzo. Its edges worn smooth with age. Rain slanted in through the window at the far end. Gathered into thin streams across the floor. He walked close to the wall. Avoided the pooled water. 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 boiler room. Ten minutes. Seven sharp. Reach the classroom. Morning reading.

The wind crossed the cinder track. Lifted scraps of ash. His fingers froze stiff. His joints turned sluggish. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them in turns. He could not stop. If he stopped, body heat would drop fast. In his head he kept doing the math. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Sixty cents a day. Four days, 2.40. Three-tenths and two left. 0.32. Not enough for a new pencil. Not enough for a bottle of mercurochrome. It could only be kept. For emergencies. He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched that half piece of compressed biscuit. The wrapper had already gone soft. He took it out. Unwrapped it. Broke off a quarter and put it into his mouth. Dry. Rough. It caught in his throat. He walked to the boiler room. Got hot water. Filled the enamel mug. The hot water washed it down. The biscuit crumbs dissolved. Turned to paste. He drank in small sips. Let the water fully enter his stomach. His stomach had something in it now. But it did not hold off hunger. He put a hand on his abdomen. Pressed lightly. Digestive juices secreted. The hunger was pushed down.

Seven sharp. The preparatory bell for morning reading rang.

The flow of people in the corridor began to turn back. Footsteps grew heavier. Voices lowered. Lin Chen slung the canvas bag over his back, pushed open the door, and walked into Class 1-3.

More than thirty students were already seated in the classroom. The fluorescent tubes gave off a faint hum. The air smelled of old books and sweat. He went to the back row by the window. Sat down. Put the canvas bag into the desk compartment. Kept a hand on it. Opened the physics workbook. Turned to problem ten. Read through last night’s solution again. The logic was clear. The steps were complete. He picked up his pencil and wrote in the blank space: Core of the final problem: critical state. Maximum static friction. Simultaneous equations.

Eight o’clock. The class bell rang. The iron clock hammer struck the bronze bell. The sound was dull. Echoing.

The proctor walked into the classroom carrying a stack of test papers. The plastic bag rustled. He put the papers on the podium and clapped his hands.

“Quiet. Same rules as usual. No whispering. No notes. If cheating is discovered, zero score. When the papers are handed out, write your name and student number first. Do not start until the bell rings.”

The papers were distributed. The paper was coarse. It smelled of ink. Lin Chen got his paper and first turned to the last page. Looked at the final problem. Problem type. Inclined plane and pulley system. Critical angle. Find the mass ratio. Exactly the prototype Old Li had mentioned. His heartbeat remained steady. His hand was steady. He turned the paper back to the first page. Wrote his name. Lin Chen. Student number. 32. The pen tip crossed the paper and left clear traces. He pulled the canvas bag to the corner of the desk to block the cold draft coming through the crack in the window. The pencil wrapped in oiled paper lay on his right. Ruler. Eraser. Spare. Everything in place.

The bell rang. Begin writing.

Mathematics. Ninety minutes. Basic questions. Fill-ins. Multiple choice. He did them quickly. He did not skip steps. He did not omit process. The scratch paper was divided into sections. Each problem had its own area. Calculation. Verification. Symbols. Units. No mistakes. Middle-level problems. Solid geometry. Analytic geometry. He drew auxiliary lines. Set up coordinate axes. Wrote equations. Solved them. Filled the page with steps. Left no blank spaces. Final problem. Function derivatives. Find the extreme value. He got stuck for ten seconds. The thread of thought broke. He put down the pen. Closed his eyes. Breathed. In his head he replayed the notes from his mistake book. Domain. Monotonicity. Endpoint values. He opened his eyes. Read the question again. Differentiate. Find the critical points. Make a chart. Judge the intervals of increase and decrease. Substitute the endpoints. Compare. Obtain the maximum value. He wrote down the answer. Looked at the clock. Sixty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes left. Check. Symbols. Units. Logic. No mistakes.

Papers collected. Physics handed out.

The rain grew heavier. It smashed against the glass. The water trails distorted the cinder track outside the window. The air pressure in the classroom seemed to sink. The sound of pages turning grew heavier. The scratch of pen tips on paper thickened. Lin Chen stared at the test paper. His fingers pressed the page flat to keep the dampness seeping in from the rain from wrinkling it. In his mind he began to break down the time. Multiple choice and fill-ins. Twenty minutes. Experimental problems. Fifteen minutes. Calculation problems. Fifty-five minutes. Put the fragments together: ninety minutes. Ninety minutes. To digest the first three mechanics chapters. Trigonometric functions. Redox reactions. He picked up the eraser, rubbed out the auxiliary lines on the scratch paper, and redrew them. Force analysis. Orthogonal decomposition. Write equations. Substitute. Verify. The steps could not be skipped. Skip one step, lose points. Skip two steps, lose more. That was the grading standard in county schools. He did not know it exactly. But he did know this: fill in all the steps, and the grader would find nowhere to deduct. That was points.

The physics teacher began explaining forces on an inclined plane. Chalk drew thick coordinate axes on the blackboard. Chalk dust fell on his sleeve. Lin Chen did not look up. He stared at his own notebook and broke the teacher’s board work into three columns. Known conditions. Hidden conditions. Target of the solution. He underlined with pencils of different colors. Blue for the knowns. Red for the hidden conditions. Black for the target. Color distinction. Layered logic. Not by memory. By structure.

The boy in the front row turned around and passed him half an eraser. “Yours has gone dull. Use this one.”

Lin Chen took it. Thanked him.

The boy lowered his voice. “I heard that on this month’s exam, the last physics problem is adapted from a provincial competition. Old Li wrote it. He likes to test critical states and extreme values. That incline-and-friction problem you worked out last night—you were on the right track. But the problem type might change. He might switch static friction to kinetic friction. Then add a spring.”

Lin Chen nodded. Said nothing. He put the half eraser into his pencil case, side by side with the original half. Two erasers. Different shapes. Same hardness. Enough. He opened the workbook. Turned to the spring model. Drew the force diagram. Hooke’s law. F = kx. Equilibrium position. Maximum compression. He set up the expressions. Checked them. Symbols. Units. No mistakes. He copied the steps into the mistake book. Beside them he noted: Critical point: velocity zero. Maximum acceleration. Spring force balances the component of gravity.

At noon, twelve o’clock, the dismissal bell rang. The crowd surged toward the cafeteria. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the crush. He went to the long bench and opened the oiled paper package. The rice had gone completely cold. A hard crust had formed on the surface. He broke it apart and swallowed it with the free soup, mouthful by mouthful. The soup was clear. Two leaves floated in it. The salt taste was faint. He drank very slowly. Let the water fully enter his stomach. His stomach had something in it now. But it did not hold off hunger. He put a hand on his abdomen. Pressed lightly. Digestive juices secreted. The hunger was pushed down. The crack in the sole of his foot rubbed inside the shoe. Every step felt like stepping on broken glass. He adjusted his center of gravity and shifted the weight onto the outer edge of his foot, avoiding the crack. The edge of the sole had already curled up. He pressed the lifted part flat with his fingernail. It would not go back in. Then leave it. As long as it did not affect walking, it was fine.

The ledger was in the canvas bag. He did not take it out. The numbers were in his mind. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Sixty cents a day. Four days, 2.40. 0.32 left. 0.32. Not enough for a new pencil. Not enough for a bottle of mercurochrome. Enough only for half a bar of soap. Or. Keep it. For emergencies. He slipped a hand into his pocket and touched that stub of candle. Two centimeters left. Burn time approximately twenty minutes. He took it out and weighed it in his palm. Light. But enough. Twenty minutes. Enough for one final problem. Enough to verify once. Enough to check symbols once.

Afternoon classes. Chemistry. Redox reactions. Balancing equations. Lin Chen’s blind spot. Back at his old town middle school, he had never learned the electron transfer method. He only knew rote memorization. Now he had to make it up. He opened his notes and broke the teacher’s explanation into three steps. Mark oxidation states. Identify rises and falls. Balance the charge. On scratch paper he practiced five problems. Got two wrong. Cause of error: forgot the hydrogen ions in an acidic environment. He circled the mistakes and wrote beside them: Environment. Medium. H+/OH-. The handwriting was tiny. But clear. He did not seek speed. He sought steadiness. Steady. That was speed. He copied the wrong problems into the mistake book. Used red pen to mark the medium conditions. Blue pen for the number of electrons transferred. Black pen for the balancing coefficients. Three colors, clearly distinguished. At a glance. Next time he saw the same type of problem: first look at the medium, then mark oxidation states, finally balance. The order could not be scrambled. If it was, it would be wrong.

Evening self-study. Eighteen-thirty. The classroom was full. The fluorescent tubes hummed. The air smelled of old books and sweat. Lin Chen finished the day’s homework, closed the workbook, and looked at the clock. Twenty-one ten. Twenty minutes until lights-out. He packed his bag. The candle stub. Cardboard. Matches. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. He counted them one by one and put them into the canvas bag. Zipped it shut. Twenty-one thirty. The lights-out bell rang. The corridor darkened all at once. Chaotic footsteps. Washing noises. Voices. Lin Chen waited. Counted to one hundred. The sounds thinned. He pushed open the door and walked close to the wall. The stairwell lay between the fourth and fifth floors. The ventilation window faced north. Strong wind. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp. He squatted down. Spread out the cardboard to block the wind. Struck a match. Lit the candle. The flame fluttered. Then steadied. He opened a real physics exam paper. Timed. Forty-five minutes. He would do only the final problems.

First problem. Conveyor belt model. Object starts with zero initial velocity. Friction coefficient changes. Find the time. He drew the v-t graph. Piecewise. Acceleration. Constant speed. Deceleration. Wrote the expressions. Substituted. Calculated t = 4.2 s. Second problem. Charged particle moving in a composite field. Electric field. Magnetic field. Gravity. Find the radius of the trajectory. He drew the force diagram. Lorentz force. Centripetal force. qvB = mv²/r. Solved for r. Third problem. Adapted provincial competition question. Inclined plane. Pulley. Light rope. Critical angle. Find the mass ratio. He got stuck. The thread of thought broke. He put down the pen. Closed his eyes. Breathed. In his head he replayed the physics teacher’s words. Old Li liked testing critical states and extreme values. He reread the problem. Looked for invariants. Mechanical energy of the system conserved—but friction did work, a nonconservative force. He changed approaches. Principle of virtual work. No. Beyond the syllabus. He returned to the basics. Force analysis. Isolation method. Whole-system method. Set up the system of equations. Solve. Mass ratio m1/m2 = √3. He wrote down the answer. Looked at the clock. Forty-two minutes. Three minutes left. Check. Symbols. Units. Logic. No mistakes.

He blew out the candle. Packed his things. His fingers were frozen stiff. His joints sluggish. He hugged the canvas bag to his chest and stood up. His knees made a faint sound. The pain in the sole of his foot had become a dull ache. Like a needle, always lodged at the end of a nerve. Step by step he walked back to the fourth floor. Pushed open the door. The dormitory was very quiet. Only even breathing. He went to the bedside. Sat down. Took off his shoes. Untied the gauze. The edges of the crack had turned white. Tissue fluid had seeped out. There was no pus. He picked up the mercurochrome and a cotton swab. Dipped it. Applied it. A sharp sting. He held his breath. Spread it evenly. Wrapped it. The motions were very slow. But extremely steady. He lay down. Closed his eyes. In his mind he arranged the time. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. Twelve. Noon break. Eighteen-thirty. Evening self-study. Twenty-one thirty. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one imprint.

He slipped his hand into the side pocket of the canvas bag and touched last year’s real exam paper. The paper edges had already curled. He took it out and, by the moonlight outside the window, looked at the blank space beside the final problem. Tonight’s calculation steps. Filled all of it. But beside them there was a line of tiny writing, left by the boy in the front row. Note: Old Li sets problems by often taking prototypes from issue 4, 1998 of Middle School Physics Teaching Reference.

Lin Chen stared at that line. His fingers tightened. 1998. Issue 4. County library. No. Town middle school. No. He did not know where to find it. But he knew this: tomorrow, he had to go to the county Xinhua Bookstore. Or. Find Old Li. Ask him. He folded the test paper shut and put it back. Outside, the wind had stopped. The clouds scattered. Moonlight fell across the cinder track. The puddles reflected a cold sheen. He put his hands on his knees. Moved them slowly. The pain in the sole of his foot had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. He put his hands on his knees. Moved them slowly.

Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading.

He opened the ledger. The pencil moved. Day 10. 22:10. Stairwell calculations. Progress: 3 final physics problems completed. 5 chemistry redox balancing problems. Time spent: 45 minutes. Status: up to standard. Gap: issue 4, 1998 of Middle School Physics Teaching Reference. Countermeasure: go to Xinhua Bookstore during tomorrow’s class break to consult it. If it cannot be borrowed, ask Old Li about the prototype problem.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The page edges were somewhat curled. He stuffed it into the very bottom of the canvas bag. Pressed it down. Did not let it show.

Footsteps came from the corridor. Very light. Even rhythm. Not the student official checking dorms. A teacher on night patrol. The beam of a flashlight swept past the crack in the door. Stopped at the doorway.

“Sleep early. Don’t be late for morning reading tomorrow.” The voice was low, with an echo.

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

Lin Chen made no sound. He only put his hands on his knees. Moved them slowly.

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

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger by the bed. The pages glimmered faintly white in the moonlight.

He reached out. Touched the pencil. Drew an extremely faint line across the blank page.

Day 10. End. Progress: caught up three weeks. Blind spot: redox medium. Funds: 1.56. Status: alive.

The pencil tip paused. He set the pencil down. Closed his eyes.

Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading. Xinhua Bookstore. Opens at eight. Ten-minute class break. Distance: eight hundred meters. Walking. Eight minutes. Consult. Two minutes. Return. Just enough. Cannot be late. Cannot be discovered. Cannot overspend.

He put his hands on his knees. Moved them slowly. The pain in the sole of his foot had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. He put his hands on his knees. Moved them slowly.

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

The wind was about to rise.

He slipped his hand into the inner pocket against his body and touched that notice stamped with a red seal. The paper had already become warm. Its edges were somewhat curled. He took it out. Unfolded it. Read it over carefully.

Report in. Eight in the morning. Assemble at the town education group. Travel together by vehicle to the county.

The time had passed. But the rules were still there. One step, one imprint. They could not be disturbed.

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

He closed his eyes. His breathing was steady. In his mind he arranged the time. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. Twelve. Noon break. Eighteen-thirty. Evening self-study. Twenty-one thirty. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep.

One step, one imprint.