Chapter 38: Cutoff Point and Receipt Slip

5:50. The alarm did not ring. He woke ten minutes early.

Outside the window it was still dark. The rain fell in a fine, dense hiss against the glass, like countless needles scraping over it. He sat up. The gauze on the sole of his foot had been soaked through by night sweat. The edges had gone stiff. Slowly he put on his shoes, keeping his weight on the outside edge so the split skin would not touch the ground. The zipper of the canvas bag was cold metal. He felt for the ledger. The pencil. He crossed out yesterday and wrote:

Day 18. 05:50. Objective: wait at the mailroom. Check the postal truck. Pick up documents. Submit form. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Do not touch. Reserve.

He washed his face in cold water. A thin skin of frost clung to the rim of the metal basin. The towel was rough. It scraped across his cheeks and took the last of his drowsiness with it. He put on his Liberation shoes. The edges of the soles had already been worn flat. He kept the crack away from the point of pressure, leaned his center of gravity forward, and 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 walked close to the wall, avoiding the puddles in the corners. In his head he was laying out the mail route. Qingshi Village to the town post office: five li. Town to county: thirty li. The shuttle bus ran twice a day. Seven in the morning. Two in the afternoon. Mail sorted. Postmarked. Transported. From the county post office to No. 1 High School’s mailroom: a twenty-minute walk. Father went to market on Wednesday, asked someone to carry it on Thursday, or caught the Friday morning bus. Today was Tuesday. Mailed on Monday. In theory, it could arrive Thursday. Margin for error: one day. And now. This was the cutoff point.

At 7:05, the town postal shuttle should have arrived.

In the first-floor lobby, beside the green iron mailbox, the mailroom window was lit. The old groundskeeper, padded coat over his shoulders, was using iron tongs to stir the coal stove. The fire glowed a dull red. Lin Chen stood outside and waited. Watched the clock. 6:05. From the distance came the sound of an engine, muffled, mixed with the splash of mud and water. A green Jiefang truck stopped outside the courtyard gate. The driver jumped down, stepped through a puddle, picked up a canvas mail sack, and carried it into the mailroom. The old groundskeeper came forward to meet him, offered him a cigarette, handled the handoff.

Lin Chen did not go in. He stood outside the doorframe, eyes fixed on the sack. The driver untied the rope fastener and dumped out a heap of letters and newspapers. The old groundskeeper sorted them, rough fingers moving slowly. Lin Chen kept his breathing even. He did not hurry him. He waited.

Ten minutes later, the groundskeeper picked up a kraft-paper envelope. The corners were slightly curled. The postmark was blurred, but in the addressee line were the words: “Lin Chen, County No. 1 High School.” Lin Chen stepped forward.

“Teacher. Mine.”

The old groundskeeper looked up at him, then handed it over. The envelope was faintly damp. The seal was intact. He tore it open. Inside was the application form. Village committee seal. Round. Red stamp. Five-pointed star. The words were clear: Qingshi Village Residents’ Committee. Date: yesterday.

He pinched the sheets between his fingers. The paper’s edge was sharp enough to cut his fingertip. It did not hurt. He checked the official seal. Checked the form. The figures were correct. His father’s handwriting was neat. No alterations.

He let out a breath. Not relief. Confirmation. The variable had landed.

At 6:40, with the form in hand, he went upstairs. Third floor. Academic Affairs Office. The door was open. The clerk in charge of financial aid was sorting files. Lin Chen knocked twice.

“Come in.”

The clerk looked up. A middle-aged woman with sleeve protectors. Materials were piled high on her desk. Lin Chen handed over the form.

“Teacher. The original financial aid document.”

She took it, flipped through it, checked the official seal, and nodded. “Everything’s here. Leave it there. We’ll submit them all to the county on Friday afternoon.”

“Do I need a receipt?” Lin Chen asked.

She shook her head. “It just has to be registered in the system. Your name is on the form. It won’t go anywhere. Go back to class.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Thank you.”

He turned, closed the door, and stepped back into the corridor. The wind was cold. But the stone in his chest had dropped to the ground. His margin for error had gone to zero. Now it was positive.

Seven o’clock. Morning self-study.

He returned to his seat without a sound and opened his physics notebook of corrected mistakes to the section on electromagnetic induction. Direction of self-induced electromotive force. Lenz’s law. Opposes increase, follows decrease. He drew coils. Marked current. Marked magnetic field. Marked change. The tip of the pen paused.

Cause of error: flawed spatial visualization. Turning three dimensions into two. Failed to account for the superposition of the right-hand screw rule.

Countermeasure: break the steps apart. Draw diagrams. Mark arrows. Verify.

He pulled out scratch paper and redid the problem. Three times. Every answer correct. Time: 7:40. Twenty minutes before class began. He closed the notebook and pulled open the zipper of his bag. The boy in the front row turned around and handed him a cassette tape. Plastic case. A handwritten label: Senior Year Two English Listening, Provincial Mock Exam, Autumn ’97.

“For you to borrow. A little old, but it still plays. Give it back this afternoon.”

Lin Chen took it. His fingertips touched the scratched, icy plastic case. “Thanks.”

The boy waved a hand and turned back around. Lin Chen put the tape into his bag, at the very bottom, where it would not get wet and would not be bent.

Four classes in the morning. Physics. Chemistry. Math. English. Lin Chen did not raise his head. His pen never stopped. During breaks he did not chat. Did not go out into the corridor. He sat at his desk and wrote out physics formulas from memory. Conservation of momentum. Conservation of energy. Electromagnetic induction. Not one left out.

He turned to a fresh page in the notebook of corrected mistakes and wrote:

Day 18. 10:15. Winter camp physics mock exam. Ninety-minute limit.

The tip of the pen paused. He closed the notebook. His fingers tightened, curling the edge of the page, then pushed it to the bottom of his bag and pinned it there.

At noon, in the cafeteria, the rain had stopped. The cloud cover split open along one seam and light leaked down, shining on the puddles like shattered silver. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the shoving, then sat down at a long bench and opened the oil-paper packet. The rice was completely cold, hard around the edges. He broke it apart and swallowed it bite by bite with the free soup. The soup was clear, lightly salted. He drank it very slowly, letting the liquid fully enter his stomach. There was something in his belly now, but it was not enough to stave off hunger.

The split in the sole of his foot rubbed against the inside of his shoe. Every step felt like walking on broken glass. He shifted his center of gravity and pressed his weight onto the outside of his foot to avoid the crack. The edge of the sole had curled upward. He pressed it flat with his fingernail. It would not go down. So he let it be. As long as it did not affect walking, that was enough.

After eating, he cleaned up, folded the oil paper neatly, and put it into the trash. Leaving no trace.

Back in the classroom. Lunch break. Half the room was empty. Lin Chen did not sleep. He took out the cassette and the Walkman borrowed from the boy in the front row. Old model. Sticky buttons. He put on the headphones and pressed play. A wash of static. Then a woman’s voice. Fast. Words linked together. Sounds swallowed. He could not understand it.

He closed his eyes and listened again. Second pass. Third pass. He caught keywords. Numbers. Times. Places. The tip of his pen took notes on scrap paper.

08:30. library. closed.

If he could not understand, then he would listen. No looking up words. No pausing. Train the ear. Ten minutes. The tape jammed. He took it out, rewound it, played it again. His fingers were frozen stiff. His joints felt dry and tight. But his mind was clear. His listening was zero. Then he would start from zero. Once. Ten times. A hundred times. Muscle memory. He wrote down the passages he could not catch. Did not get tangled in them. Mark them. Skip them. Next passage. Repeat. Do not be greedy. Go for familiarity.

He checked the time. 12:50. Lunch break over. He closed the Walkman, took out the tape, put it back into its plastic case, slipped it into his bag, and pulled the zipper shut.

Two in the afternoon. Calisthenics between classes was canceled. The loudspeaker crackled. Lin Chen did not go to the field. Holding an empty envelope, he walked down the stairs to the first-floor lobby. Against the wall stood the green iron mailbox. Its paint was mottled; rust lined the edges of the slot. He pulled open the slot and looked inside. Empty. No reply.

Mail route normal.

He released the metal flap. It struck back with a dull echo. He turned around and went upstairs. His steps were steady. His weight stayed on the outside edge. The pain in the sole of his foot was still there, but his mind was clearer. Waiting was part of the strategy. Don’t rush. Don’t panic. Move according to rhythm.

In the afternoon physics class, Old Li lectured on integrated electromagnetic field problems. Lin Chen did not raise his head. His pen did not stop. During the break he did not go to the corridor. He sat at his desk and wrote formulas from memory. Lorentz force. Ampère force. Electromagnetic induction. Not one omitted.

The notebook of corrected mistakes was updated:

Day 18. 14:20. Redid direction of self-induction three times. All correct.

Evening self-study. 18:30. The classroom was full. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead. The air smelled of old books and sweat. Lin Chen finished the day’s homework, closed the exercise book, and checked the time. 21:10. Twenty minutes to lights-out. He packed his schoolbag. Cardboard backing. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Cassette tape. He checked them one by one, put them into the canvas bag, and pulled the zipper shut. No more candles. He would use the corridor emergency light instead.

At 21:30, the lights-out bell rang. The corridor dropped into darkness at once. Chaotic footsteps. Washing up. Voices. Lin Chen waited. Counted to a hundred. The noise gradually thinned. He opened the door and walked along the wall. At the far end of the corridor, the emergency light glowed. Dim yellow. Blurred around the edges. He crouched with his back against the wall, out of the draft, and opened his English vocabulary book.

Timed: ten minutes. Memorize only twenty words. Do not be greedy. Go for mastery.

The tip of his pen passed over the page. Copying. Phonetic symbols. Part of speech. Example sentence. Not one omitted. The light was dim and 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. No mistakes.

He closed the book. His fingers were frozen numb, joints dry and stiff. Hugging the canvas bag to his chest, he got to his feet. His knees gave a faint crack. The pain in his sole had dulled into an ache, like a needle lodged at the end of a nerve. Step by step, he made his way back to the fourth floor and pushed open the door.

The dormitory was quiet. Only the even sound of breathing.

He walked to the bedside and sat down. Took off his shoe. Untied the gauze. The edges of the split had gone white. Serous fluid seeped out. No infection. He picked up the mercurochrome and a cotton swab, dipped it, and applied it. A sharp sting. He held his breath and spread it evenly. Then rebandaged the wound. His movements were very slow. But perfectly steady.

He lay down and closed his eyes. In his mind he was arranging the schedule.

Tomorrow. 6:30, morning study, read aloud. 7:00, breakfast. 8:00, class. 12:00, lunch break. 18:30, evening study. 21:30, back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one print.

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

Day 18. 22:15. Original financial aid document submitted. Registered in the system. Progress: physics mistakes redone. Ten minutes of English listening shadowing. Vocabulary section C advanced 25%. Time spent: entire day. Status: met target. Gap: funds 1.56. Meal tickets 0.32. Listening foundation zero. Winter camp written test next Wednesday. New variables: poor sound quality on listening tape. Heavy linking and swallowed sounds. Must adapt. Winter camp syllabus not yet announced. Question types unknown. Countermeasure: tomorrow morning during break, ask Old Li to confirm the range and types for the winter camp exam. Simultaneously prepare backup plan: if there is an experimental operation section, borrow the lab key or find old problems to practice. Change English listening to segmented intensive listening first—grasp the main structure, then fill in the details.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened, wrinkling the edge of the page, then shoved it to the bottom of the bag and pinned it there.

Footsteps came from the corridor. Very light. Evenly spaced. The night patrol teacher. A flashlight beam swept across the crack of the door and stopped.

“Sleep early. Final exams in twenty-eight days. Don’t stay up too late.”

The voice was low and echoing.

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

Lin Chen said nothing. His hands rested on his knees, moving slowly. 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 had scattered. The moonlight was cold. Puddles reflected it. The wind had stopped.

He slipped a hand into the inner pocket against his body and touched the notice stamped in red. The paper was warm. The edges curled. He unfolded it and read it once. Registration. The time had passed, but the rules remained. One step, one print. No disorder.

He folded it again and put it away. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth bag bit into his palm. He closed his eyes. His breathing was steady. In his mind, the schedule arranged itself again.

Tomorrow. 6:30, morning study, read aloud. 7:00, breakfast. 8:00, class. 12:00, lunch break. 18:30, evening study. 21:30, back to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep. One step, one print.

Wind slipped through the crack in the window with a low whine. Far away came the faint sound of a broadcast. County No. 1 High School campus radio. Sound check. Electrical static. Then the voice of the dean of discipline:

“Notice. Per notification from the Provincial Physics Society, the preliminary written test for the winter camp has been moved to next Tuesday afternoon. Examination room unchanged. In addition, this written test will now include an experimental design and data analysis module, worth thirty percent of the total score. Relevant students are requested to familiarize themselves in advance with the high school physics laboratory curriculum. No makeup exam will be given after the deadline.”

The voice spread through the night wind, carrying the metallic hardness of cold.

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

Day 18. End. Progress: financial aid secured. Listening begun. Status: alive. New variables: written test moved up by one day. New experimental module 30%. No lab equipment. No guidance. Countermeasure: tomorrow, 6:00 a.m., library. Borrow a high school physics lab manual. At the same time, break down past provincial competition experiment problems. Funding gap must be reassessed.

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

Tomorrow. Six o’clock. Library.

He turned over to face the wall. His breathing slowed. Unconsciously, his fingers rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was cold and rough, like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his mind. No words. Only two numbers.

Tuesday. Afternoon. Thirty percent.

Two lines crossing in the dark. Not colliding. Not entangled. Each moving forward on its own. The rain had stopped. Night dew gathered. On the window glass, a thin layer of frost formed.