Chapter 37: The Mail Route and the Scale

Six-thirty. The alarm had not rung. 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 dull piece of iron. He felt for the canvas bag by the bed. Ledger. Pencil. He crossed out yesterday’s plan and wrote: Day 17. 06:30. Goal: memorize forty words. One winter camp physics paper. Check the mail route. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Untouched. Reserve.

He washed his face with cold water. A thin frost clung to the rim of the tin basin. The towel was coarse. It scraped across his cheeks and took the last of the drowsiness with it. He put on his Liberation shoes. The edges of the soles had already been worn flat. He shifted the cut away from the pressure point, leaned his center of gravity forward, pushed open the door. The terrazzo floor in the corridor was dry. Wind poured in through the north window, carrying the smell of coal cinders and old newspapers. He kept close to the wall, avoiding the standing water in the corners, while his mind mapped the mail route. Qingshi Village to the town post office: five li. Town to county: thirty li. The shuttle ran twice a day. Seven in the morning. Two in the afternoon. Letters sorted. Stamped. Transported. From the county post bureau to the receiving room at County No. 1 High School: twenty minutes on foot. Father went to market on Wednesday. He could ask someone to carry it on Thursday. Or take the early shuttle on Friday. Today was Tuesday. If it had been mailed on Monday, then in theory it could arrive on Thursday. Margin of error: one day.

By seven-fifty, the classroom was full. Morning reading buzzed in the air. English. Chinese. Lin Chen did not make a sound. He opened High School English Vocabulary Memory Guide and turned to the C section. camera. cancel. capital. The phonetic symbols were unfamiliar. He guessed at the pronunciation. His lips moved faintly as he recited in silence. His finger traced the spelling on the desktop. c-a-m-e-r-a. Camera. He repeated it on scrap paper with his pen, ten times, twenty times, building muscle memory. A boy in the front row turned around. “Morning reading’s supposed to be out loud. Lao Li said so. The sound has to come out before your brain can remember it.” Lin Chen nodded without speaking. He closed the book, zipped it up, tightened his fingers around it, the edges of the pages curling, and shoved it to the bottom of his bag, pinning it down. He took a deep breath, lowered his voice, and began to read. The syllables were dry, like sandpaper rubbing together, but they connected, unbroken.

Four classes in the morning. Physics. Chemistry. Math. English. Lin Chen did not raise his head. His pen never stopped moving. During breaks he did not chat, did not go into the hallway. He stayed in his seat and wrote out physics formulas from memory. Conservation of momentum. Conservation of energy. Electromagnetic induction. Not one omitted. He turned to a fresh page in his notebook of mistakes and wrote: Day 17. 10:15. Winter camp physics mock paper. Time limit: 90 minutes. The pen tip paused. He closed the notebook, tightened his fingers, the page edges curling, and pushed it to the bottom of his bag, weighing it down.

At noon, in the cafeteria, the crowd was thick. Lin Chen waited until the end to avoid the shoving. He sat at a long bench and opened the oil-paper parcel. The rice was stone-cold, crusted hard. He broke it apart and swallowed it mouthful by mouthful with the free soup. The soup was clear, barely salted. He drank slowly, letting the liquid settle fully into his stomach. His stomach felt lined, but not full. The crack in his sole rubbed inside the shoe. Every step felt like walking on broken glass. He adjusted his balance and put his weight on the outer edge of his foot to keep pressure off the cut. The edge of the sole had started to peel up. He pressed it down with a fingernail. It would not stay. He left it. As long as it did not affect walking, that was enough.

Back in the classroom, at midday rest, half the room was empty. Lin Chen did not sleep. He pulled out the physics mock paper and spread it flat. He sharpened his pencil. The tip hovered one centimeter above the page for three seconds, then dropped.

First question. Mechanics. Force analysis. Resolve into perpendicular components. Set up the equations. Solve. Second question. Electromagnetism. Lorentz force. Circular motion. Radius formula. Period formula.

The pencil moved across the paper with a dry rustle. He did not flip through books. He did not consult tables. He worked from memory. When he got stuck, he stopped writing, took a deep breath, recalled the example problems Lao Li had explained: the whole-method, the isolation-method, the point of entry. Then the pencil moved again. Ninety minutes. The bell rang. He put it down. Then checked the answers. On the scratch paper, he compared every step line by line against the standard solution. One problem wrong. A combined problem in electromagnetic induction. He had missed the direction of the self-induced electromotive force. Deduction: eight points. Total score: ninety-two. Up to standard, but not enough. Top five required ninety-five or higher. Countermeasure: sort the errors by type. Redo them.

At two in the afternoon, exercises between classes were canceled. The loudspeaker crackled with electrical static. Lin Chen did not go to the athletic field. Holding an empty envelope, he went downstairs. In the first-floor hall, a green iron mailbox stood in the corner. Its paint was chipped. Rust furred the edge of the slot. He pulled it open. Inside was empty. No reply. The mail route was normal. He let go. The metal shut with a dull echo. He turned and went upstairs. His steps were steady, his weight still pressed to the outer edge of his foot. The pain in his sole remained, but his mind was clearer. Waiting was part of the strategy. No urging. No panic. Move in rhythm.

Evening 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 his workbook, checked the time. Twenty-one ten. Twenty minutes before lights-out. He packed his schoolbag, checking the cardboard sheet, pencil, eraser, ruler one by one before putting them into the canvas bag and zipping it shut. He had run out of candles. He would use the hallway emergency light instead.

At twenty-one thirty, the lights-out bell rang. The corridor went dark at once. Footsteps broke into disorder. Sounds of washing up. Voices talking. Lin Chen waited and counted to one hundred. The noise gradually thinned. He pushed open the door and walked close to the wall. At the end of the corridor the emergency light was on, dim yellow, its halo blurred at the edges. He crouched down with his back against the wall, out of the draft, opened the English vocabulary book. Time limit: ten minutes. Only twenty words. No greed for quantity. Familiarity first. The pencil moved across the page as he copied: phonetic symbols, parts of speech, example sentences, not one missing. The light was poor, the handwriting small. He leaned closer. His eyes stung. He blinked and kept going. He checked the time. Nine minutes. One minute left. Review. Spelling. Correct. He shut the book. His fingers were stiff with cold, his joints wooden. He hugged the canvas bag to his chest and stood up. His knees gave a faint crack. The pain in his sole had turned into a blunt ache now, like a needle lodged in the tips of the nerves. Step by step he went back to the fourth floor and pushed open the door. The dormitory was very quiet. Only even breathing.

He sat down by his bed, took off his shoe, unwound the gauze. The edges of the crack had turned white. Clear fluid had seeped out, but there was no pus. He picked up the mercurochrome and a cotton swab, dipped it, and applied it. A sharp sting. He held his breath, spread it evenly, then rewrapped the foot. His movements were slow, but perfectly steady. He lay down and closed his eyes. In his head he arranged the next day’s schedule. Tomorrow. Six-thirty, morning reading, out loud. Seven, breakfast. Eight, class. Twelve, midday break. Eighteen-thirty, evening study. Twenty-one thirty, back to the dormitory. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one imprint.

He felt for the ledger and opened it. The pencil moved.

Day 17. 22:10. One physics mock paper. One question wrong. Eight points deducted. Progress: 20% through vocabulary section C. Mail route not yet confirmed. Time spent: entire day. Status: up to standard. Shortfall: funds 1.56. meal tickets 0.32. English listening zero. Winter camp target 95+. New variable: risk of mail-route delay. If it does not arrive Thursday, must go to the receiving room two hours early on Friday and wait there. Countermeasure: during morning break tomorrow, confirm mailbox delivery record. At the same time prepare backup plan: if the stamped form has not arrived, apply for an extension or submit an explanatory note. Change English morning reading to shadowing an audio recording (borrow the old cassette from the boy in the front row).

The pencil paused. He closed the ledger, tightened his fingers, curled the page edges, shoved it to the bottom of his bag, and pinned it down. Light footsteps came from the corridor, even in rhythm. The night patrol teacher. A beam from a flashlight swept across the crack under the door and stopped. “Sleep early. Thirty days until finals. Don’t stay up too late.” The voice was low and echoed faintly. “Got it,” the boy in the lower bunk answered indistinctly. Lin Chen said nothing. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. The pain in his sole had gone numb. His body was hollowed out, but he did not sleep. Outside the window, the clouds had scattered. The moonlight was cold. Puddles reflected it. The wind had stopped.

He slipped a hand into the pocket against his body and touched the notice stamped with the red seal. The paper was warm, its edges curled. He unfolded it and read it once. Reporting. Time. Rules. One step, one imprint. No disorder. He folded it, put it away, and tightened his fingers. The edge of the cloth bag bit into his palm. He closed his eyes. His breathing leveled. In his mind he arranged the schedule again. Tomorrow. Six-thirty, morning reading, out loud. Seven, breakfast. Eight, class. Twelve, midday break. Eighteen-thirty, evening study. Twenty-one thirty, back to the dormitory. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one imprint.

Wind slipped through the cracks outside the window with a low whistle. Far off came the faint sound of a broadcast. County No. 1 High School campus radio. Sound check. Electrical static. Then the dean’s voice:

“Notice. Per notification from the county postal bureau, due to continuous rainy weather, shuttle routes on some rural mail lines are delayed by one to two days. Teachers and students are asked to pay attention to delivery times for letters. In addition, the deadline for submission of preliminary financial-aid materials is this Friday at five in the afternoon. Late submissions will not be accepted. Homeroom teachers are asked to enforce this strictly.”

The voice spread through the night wind, carrying a metallic chill.

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger by the bed. The pages were pale. He reached out, found the pencil, and drew a very faint line across a blank page.

Day 17. End. Progress: physics mock paper up to standard. Mail route delayed one day. Status: alive. New variable: shuttle delay. Time for the return of the stamped document compressed to Friday morning. Margin for error reduced to zero. Countermeasure: tomorrow at six, go early to the receiving room. Check the arrival record for rural shuttle routes. If it has not arrived, contact the town post office directly for inquiry. Meanwhile continue preparing for the winter camp written exam.

The pencil paused. He put it down. Closed his eyes.

Tomorrow. Six o’clock. Receiving room.

He turned over to face the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was cold, rough, like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. No words. Only two numbers. Friday. Five o’clock. Wednesday. Afternoon. Two lines crossing in the dark, neither colliding nor tangling, each moving forward on its own. Then the sound of rain began to strike the windowpane, fine and unbroken, like a net.