Chapter 36: Forms and Seals

Six-thirty. The alarm clock did not ring. His body clock woke first.

His eyelids were heavy. But his mind was clear. As if washed in cold water. He sat up. The edge of the gauze on the sole of his foot had stiffened. The crack no longer throbbed. The pain had sunk into the bone. Like a piece of dull iron. He felt for the canvas bag by the bed. Ledger. Pencil. He crossed out yesterday’s plan. Wrote: Day 16. 06:30. Objectives: collect form. fill form. memorize thirty words. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Untouched. Reserve.

He washed his face with cold water. A thin layer of frost clung to the rim of the tin basin. The towel was rough. It scraped across his cheeks. Took away the last of his sleepiness. He put on his Liberation shoes. The edges of the soles had already been worn flat. The split in the sole avoided the pressure point. He leaned his weight forward. Pushed open the door. The terrazzo floor in the hallway was dry. Wind poured in through the north window. Carrying the smell of coal cinders and old newspapers. He walked close to the wall. Avoided the standing water in the corners. In his head he was arranging the schedule. Building Three to the homeroom teacher’s office. Eighty meters. On foot. Three minutes. Collect form. Five minutes. Back to classroom. Morning reading.

Seven-fifty. The classroom was full. The sound of morning reading buzzed in the air. English. Chinese. Lin Chen made no sound. He opened High School English Vocabulary Quick Memorization. The cover was curled at the edges. The inner pages had yellowed. The spine had been wrapped in clear tape. He flipped to section A. apple. abandon. ability. The phonetic symbols were unfamiliar. He guessed at the pronunciation. His lips moved slightly. Silently reciting. His finger traced the spelling on the desktop. a-b-a-n-d-o-n. Abandon. The tip of his pencil repeated it on scrap paper. Ten times. Twenty times. Muscle memory. A boy in the front row turned around. He did not pass over a note. Only glanced once at the vocabulary book on the corner of Lin Chen’s desk. “Morning reading has to be out loud. That’s what Old Li said. You have to let the sound out. That’s how the brain remembers.” Lin Chen nodded. Said nothing. Closed the book. Pulled the zipper shut. His fingers tightened. The edges of the pages curled. He stuffed it into the bottom of the bag. Pressed it down. He drew a deep breath. Lowered his voice. Began to read. The syllables were dry. Like sandpaper rubbing together. But continuous. Unbroken.

Between classes. The bell was crisp. The crowd scattered. Lin Chen cleared his desk. Pulled the zipper of his canvas bag shut. Stood up. His knees gave a faint crack. The pain in the sole of his foot was manageable. He walked out of the classroom. Along the corridor toward the teachers’ office. Third floor. Homeroom office. The door was ajar. Inside drifted the smell of chalk dust and old files. He knocked. Twice. Lightly.

“Come in.” His homeroom teacher Old Chen’s voice. Hoarse with the rasp of just having finished grading homework. Old Chen taught Chinese. He wore black-rimmed glasses. Chalk dust clung to his cuffs. A stack of forms lay spread across his desk. The top one was printed with Application Form for the Provincial Normal College Student Aid Fund. Sixteenmo paper. Folded in half. The edges sharp.

Lin Chen pushed the door open. Went in. Stood still. Both hands hanging naturally at his sides. “Teacher Chen. I’m here to collect the form.”

Old Chen looked up. His gaze rested for a second on the sleeves of Lin Chen’s faded, repeatedly washed school uniform. He handed over a form. The paper was slightly cool. Like a thin sheet of iron. “Fill it out. Write your family situation truthfully. Income. Debt. Number of people. Don’t exaggerate. Don’t hide anything either. The school will verify it. Hand it in by the end of the month. Late submissions won’t be accepted. I’ll sign the homeroom teacher section. The village committee seal—you’ll have to figure that part out yourself. Mail it back, or have someone bring it. Time is tight.”

Lin Chen took it. Nodded. “Understood.”

Old Chen looked at him. “Aid funds. Limited slots. The first review looks at grades. The second review looks at materials. You ranked eighteenth on the monthly exam. Your grades are enough. Don’t let the paperwork go wrong. Go back to class.”

“Yes.” Lin Chen turned. Pushed open the door. Wind poured into the corridor. Blew away the stale smell of old paper in the office. He walked back to the fourth floor step by step. His pace steady. His weight pressed to the outside of his foot. The pain in his sole was still there. But his mind was clearer. The form was not paper. It was proof. Fill it out wrong, and it was zero. Fill it out right, and it was a road.

Noon. Cafeteria. Crowded with people. Lin Chen waited until the end. Avoided the shoving. Walked to the long bench. Opened the oil-paper packet. The rice was completely cold. A hard crust. He broke it apart and swallowed it with the free soup. Mouthful by mouthful. The soup was clear. Lightly salted. He drank it very slowly. Letting the water fully enter his stomach. There was something in his stomach now. But it was not enough to fill him. The crack in the sole of his foot rubbed inside the shoe. He shifted his center of gravity. Pressed his weight to the outer edge of the foot. Avoided the crack. The edge of the sole had curled up. He pressed it flat with his fingernail. It would not stay down. So he left it. As long as it did not affect walking, it was fine.

Back to the classroom. Lunch break. Half the classroom was empty. Lin Chen did not sleep. He took out the application form. Smoothed it flat. Sharpened the pencil. The pencil tip hovered one centimeter above the paper. Paused for three seconds. Then came down.

Name. Lin Chen. Sex. Male. Date of birth. Month X, 1982. Native place. Qingshi Village.

Family members. Four. Father: Lin Jianguo. Mother: Wang Guiying. Younger brother: Lin Xing.

Annual family income. He paused. In his head he did the arithmetic. His father farmed the land. Two mu of paddy fields. One mu of dry land. Corn. Sweet potatoes. Rice. Converted into cash, the annual harvest was about eight hundred. His mother raised pigs. Two a year. The sale price fluctuated. About four hundred. His younger brother took medicine. Fifteen a month. One hundred eighty a year. His father had been injured during the busy farming season. Unable to work for two months. Lost wages. Impossible to calculate. But the ledger recorded it. Debt. Thirty owed to the village clinic. One hundred twenty owed to the township clinic. Loan from relatives. Two hundred. Total. Three hundred fifty.

He wrote: Annual family cash income is approximately 1,200 yuan. Main sources: agricultural cultivation and household livestock raising. Younger brother Lin Xing suffers from epilepsy and requires long-term medication. Fixed monthly expenditure: 15 yuan. Family debt is approximately 350 yuan.

The handwriting was neat. No embellishment. No self-pity. Only numbers. Like solving a word problem. Conditions. Given. Solve.

Reason for application. He stopped writing. In his mind flashed the rainy night. Three yuan and fifty mao. The village doctor’s dismissive wave. The diagnostic slip from the township clinic. The numbers for the medication cost. His mother’s swollen red eyes. His father’s stooped back. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. The pencil tip touched down.

The family is in financial hardship and is unable to bear the later-stage high school tuition and miscellaneous fees as well as my younger brother’s long-term medical expenses. I am applying for the student aid fund to cover tuition, miscellaneous fees, and basic living expenses. I promise to remain in the top five of the grade level and to repay on schedule.

When he finished, he set down the pencil. His fingers were slightly stiff. The handwriting on the page was clear. No corrections. He checked it over once. The logic was closed. The data could be verified. No sentimentality. No humility. Just a statement of fact. And facts themselves carried weight.

Village committee seal. His father would need to go into town to get it stamped. Or entrust someone else. From Qingshi Village to the township clinic: ten li of muddy road. To the village committee: five li. His father’s legs were bad. It was the busy farming season. Time was tight. He needed to write a letter. Explain the situation. Enclose the form. Mail it back. Or wait until the weekend and ask someone from the same village to bring it.

He pulled out a sheet of scrap paper. Folded it in half. His pencil moved.

Dad.

The school has a student aid fund. A form must be filled out. Enclosed.

I have filled in the family information truthfully.

The village committee official seal is required.

Seal style: round, with a five-pointed star, words: Qingshi Village Villagers’ Committee.

It must be returned before the end of the month. Late submission invalidates it.

If inconvenient, you can ask Uncle Zhao, who goes to market on Wednesday, to bring it.

Do not write back. Save the postage.

Chen.

When he finished writing, he folded it and put it into an envelope. Affixed a stamp. Eight fen. He felt for the loose change in his pocket. Counted out eight fen. Stuck it on. Sealed the envelope. Wrote the address clearly. Qingshi Village. To Lin Jianguo.

He clipped the envelope and the application form together. Put them in the innermost layer of his canvas bag. Pulled the zipper shut. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth bag pressed into his palm.

Two in the afternoon. Calisthenics period canceled. The loudspeaker crackled. Electric static. Lin Chen did not go to the athletic field. He took the envelope and walked down the stairs. First-floor lobby. A green iron mailbox stood in the corner by the wall. The paint was mottled and peeling. Rust edged the mail slot. He pulled it open and pushed the envelope inside. Metal struck metal. A dull echo. He let go. Watched the envelope slide down. Vanish into the dark. Postmark tomorrow. Transit three days. To the town. His father collected it. Got it stamped. Mailed it back. The timing would barely land before five o’clock Friday afternoon. Margin for error. Zero.

Evening self-study. Eighteen-thirty. The classroom was full. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The air smelled of old books and sweat. Lin Chen finished that day’s homework. Closed the exercise book. Looked at the time. Twenty-one ten. Twenty minutes until lights-out. He packed his schoolbag. Piece of hard cardboard. Matches. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Checked them one by one. Put them into the canvas bag. Pulled the zipper shut. He was out of candles. He changed strategy. At the end of the corridor there was an emergency light. Low wattage. Dim. But enough.

Twenty-one thirty. The lights-out bell rang. The corridor darkened instantly. Footsteps in disarray. Sounds of washing up. Talking. Lin Chen waited. Counted to one hundred. The sounds gradually thinned. He pushed open the door. Walked close to the wall. At the end of the corridor, the emergency light was on. Dim yellow. The edges of the halo blurred. He crouched down. Leaned his back against the wall. Avoided the draft. Opened the English vocabulary book. Time limit: ten minutes. Memorize only twenty words. Don’t be greedy. Aim for mastery.

The pencil tip scraped across the paper. Copying. Phonetic symbols. Part of speech. Example sentence. Not one omitted. The light was dim. The writing small. He leaned closer. His eyes stung. He blinked. Continued. Checked the time. Nine minutes. One minute left. Review. Spelling. Correct. He closed the book. His fingers were frozen stiff. His joints rough and tight. He hugged the canvas bag to his chest and stood up. His knees gave a soft crack. The pain in the sole of his foot had become a dull ache. Like a needle. Piercing the ends of his nerves without stopping. He walked back to the fourth floor one step at a time. Pushed open the door. The dormitory was very quiet. Only the even sound of breathing.

He walked to the bed. Sat down. Took off his shoe. Untied the gauze. The edges of the crack had turned white. Tissue fluid had seeped out. No pus. He picked up the mercurochrome. Cotton swab. Dipped it. Applied it. A stabbing pain. He held his breath. Spread it evenly. Wrapped it again. The movements were very slow. But extremely steady. He lay down. Closed his eyes. In his mind he arranged the schedule. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading. Out loud. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. Twelve. Lunch break. Eighteen-thirty. Evening self-study. Twenty-one thirty. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one imprint.

He felt for the ledger. Opened it. Pencil moving.

Day 16. 22:10. Collected form. Filled form. Mailed letter. Progress: application form completed. Logic closed. Data verifiable. Time spent: full day. Status: up to standard. Gap: funds 1.56. meal tickets 0.32. English vocabulary progress 15%. New variable: official seal requires village committee stamp. Father busy with farm work. Narrow time window. Countermeasure: during morning break tomorrow, confirm mailbox pickup record. Simultaneously prepare backup plan: if the seal does not arrive, apply for an extension or submit explanatory note later. Change English morning reading to shadowing from a recording (borrow the old tape from the boy in the front row).

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The edges of the pages curled. He stuffed it into the bottom of the bag. Pressed it down. Footsteps came from the corridor. Very light. Even rhythm. The teacher on night rounds. A flashlight beam swept across the crack of the door. Stopped. “Sleep early. Thirty days until final exams. Don’t stay up too late.” The voice was low, with an echo. “Got it,” the boy in the lower bunk answered vaguely. Lin Chen made no sound. His hands rested on his knees, slowly moving them. The pain in the sole of his foot had gone numb. His body was hollowed out. But he did not sleep. Outside the window, the clouds thinned. Moonlight cold. Puddles reflecting light. The wind had stopped.

He slipped his hand into the inner pocket against his body. Touched the notice stamped with red seal. The paper was warm. The edges curled. He unfolded it. Looked over it once. Registration. The time had passed. The rules remained. One step, one imprint. No disorder. He folded it. Put it away. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth bag pressed into his palm. He closed his eyes. His breathing steady. In his mind he arranged the schedule. Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading. Out loud. Seven. Breakfast. Eight. Class. Twelve. Lunch break. Eighteen-thirty. Evening self-study. Twenty-one thirty. Back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one imprint.

The wind outside the window passed through the cracks with a low whistling. In the distance came the faint sound of the radio broadcast. The county No. 1 High School campus broadcast. Sound check. Electric static. Then the dean of studies’ voice. “Notice. The preliminary written test for the Provincial Physics Winter Camp will be held next Wednesday afternoon. The examination room will be in the lecture hall. Relevant students are requested to bring their admission tickets and stationery and attend on time. In addition, preliminary review materials for the student aid fund must be submitted by five o’clock this Friday afternoon. Late submission will be regarded as automatic withdrawal. Homeroom teachers of each class are requested to strictly screen submissions. Original documents are required. Copies are invalid.”

The voice spread in the night wind. Carrying a metallic coldness and hardness.

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger at the head of the bed. The pages pale white. He reached out. Touched the pencil. On a blank page, he drew a very faint line.

Day 16. End. Progress: application form completed. Seal pending. Winter Camp written test next Wednesday. Status: alive. New variable: preliminary review materials due Friday. Mailing time for official seal uncontrollable. Original-document requirement leaves no retreat. Countermeasure: mail letter tomorrow morning. Simultaneously prepare backup plan: if the seal does not arrive, apply for an extension or submit explanatory note later.

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

Tomorrow. Six-thirty. Morning reading. Out loud.

He turned over, facing the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was icy. Rough. Like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his mind. No words. Only two numbers. Friday. Five o’clock. Wednesday. Afternoon. Two lines crossing in the dark. Not colliding. Not tangled. Each moving forward on its own.