Chapter 42: Borrowed Boots and the Official Seal

Six o’clock sharp. Library basement. Abandoned reading room. The heat was out. The air was cold and rigid. He spread out the letter paper. The fountain pen was filled with blue-black ink. The nib hovered. First the heading. Then the body.

Qingshi Village Residents’ Committee.

This is to certify that Lin Chen, son of Lin Jianguo, a resident of our village, is a second-year student at County No. 1 High School. Due to financial hardship, he is applying for a student aid grant. The circumstances are true. Hereby certified.

Signature. Date.

He stopped writing. Checked it over. Format. Wording. No excess. In line with official document standards. He folded it neatly and slipped it into an envelope. Unsealed. Waiting for the official seal.

Seven o’clock. Morning reading ended. He stood up and went to the laboratory building. Old Li was in the equipment room taking inventory. Lin Chen stood outside the door and waited. Counted to thirty. Knocked twice.

“Come in.”

Old Li looked up.

“Teacher. I’d like to borrow a pair of old rain boots. Non-slip. Something I can wear over my school shoes.”

Old Li sized him up. His gaze fell on the worn-flat heels of Lin Chen’s shoes. He asked no questions. Turned around. Dragged out a pair of black, knee-high rubber boots from the corner of the wall. The tread was deep. The edges had yellowed. Dried mud still clung to them.

Old Li handed them over. “Discarded from the logistics storeroom. Size forty-two. Your feet are small—pad them with two layers of cardboard. They’ll do for traction. Wash them clean when you’re done and put them back where they belong. Don’t lose them.”

Lin Chen took them. Heavy. Strong smell of rubber. He thanked him, turned, and went downstairs. His steps were steady.

Seven twenty. Library basement. He sat down, took off his shoes, and pulled on the rubber boots. Cardboard inserted. Laces tightened. He stood and stamped his feet. A good fit. No wobble. He took two steps across the terrazzo floor. The rubber soles scraped against it with a dull sound. The anti-slip effect was real. But the boot shafts were stiff and rubbed at his ankles. He adjusted. Shifted his center of gravity forward. Adapted.

The cracks in the soles of his feet were sealed inside the rubber boots. The temperature rose. Tissue fluid seeped out. The stinging pain turned into a swollen, muffled ache. He couldn’t take them off. On Tuesday the mountain road would be slick. The soles of his school shoes were worn smooth. One step on ice and he would fall. If he fell, his qualification for the written exam would be canceled. He endured it. Pulled the canvas bag’s zipper all the way up to press down the edge of the boot shaft and reduce the friction.

From eight to twelve. Classes. Physics. Chemistry. Math. English.

Lin Chen never looked up. His pen never stopped. During breaks he didn’t go into the corridor. He stayed in his seat, eyes closed, mentally calculating the 12V power supply problem. No scratch paper. He broke the steps apart.

Step one. Range. 12V divided by 10 ohms: 1.2A. Exceeds the 0.6A setting. Must use the 3A setting or add a 20-ohm protective resistor in series.

Step two. Reading. Pointer deflection grid count multiplied by the value per division.

Step three. Data processing. Slope. Intercept. Error.

He turned the common values into little mnemonics and repeated them silently. Once. Twice. Three times. Muscle memory overwrote abstraction on paper. He opened his eyes and drew the U-I coordinate plane directly on a blank sheet. No scales marked, only points plotted. Connect the line. Find the slope. Mental arithmetic. Pen down. Check.

Time: 9:40. Twenty minutes before class. Seven minutes faster than yesterday. The bottleneck was estimating significant figures. He wrote it down.

Countermeasure: fix the estimated digit. Abandon hesitation. Once the pen touches paper, the value is set.

Noon. Cafeteria. The cloud cover hung low. The wind was hard. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the crowd, then went to a long bench and opened the oil-paper parcel. The rice was hard. The soup was cold. He broke the rice apart and swallowed it with the soup. At least his stomach had something in it. Inside the rubber boots, his feet were hot and sweating. He adjusted them. Didn’t take them off. When he finished eating, he cleaned up after himself. Left no trace.

One in the afternoon. Between classes. He took the envelope and went to the teachers’ office. His homeroom teacher was grading assignments. Lin Chen stepped forward and handed over the letter.

“Teacher. This is the draft certificate for the student grant. It needs the school seal. Also, the village seal still needs to be added. The postal route is cut off. A tractor is coming into town tomorrow afternoon.”

The homeroom teacher looked up, read the letter, and nodded. “The format is right. I’ll stamp it for you. As for the village, I’ll call from the office. Wait here.”

The teacher picked up the receiver, dialed, and listened through the ringing tone. The call connected.

“Hello, is this the Qingshi Village Committee? I’m the homeroom teacher of a second-year class at County No. 1 High School. I’m looking for Lin Jianguo. Yes. It’s about his son’s student grant. The certificate has been prepared. It needs the village seal. Yes. Is there a tractor coming into town tomorrow afternoon? There is? Good. Ask the driver to bring it over. Thank you.”

He hung up and handed the envelope back. “Stamped. Tomorrow at four in the afternoon. Wait at the school gate for the vehicle.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Thank you, Teacher.”

He turned and walked out. The wind was cold. He stood on the steps. Wait. Tomorrow. Four o’clock. Material handoff. Margin for error: zero. He could not wait passively. He walked back to the classroom and sat down. His pen scratched across the paper.

Postal route cut off. Backup plan activated. Official seal obtained. Tractor handoff arranged.

From two to five in the afternoon. Class. Study hall. Lin Chen continued compressing his mental calculations. English vocabulary, Section C, progressed to 45%. The cracks in the soles of his feet rubbed against the inside of the rubber boots; the pain dulled into pressure. He shifted his weight to the outer edges of his feet and did not slow down.

He took out the physics lab manual and flipped to the chapter on the 12V regulated power supply. In the blank space he used a pencil to draw a flowchart: power source, switch, variable resistor, protective resistor, ammeter, resistor under test, voltmeter in parallel. He closed his eyes and traced the circuit in his head. Current direction. Voltage distribution. Needle deflection. Once. Twice. Three times.

He opened his eyes and wrote the data directly on paper. No derivation, only results. Slope. Intercept. Error range. Significant figures. The pen tip drew extremely fine lines, the pressure even, no trembling.

Time: 4:50. Forty minutes before evening self-study. Four minutes faster than yesterday. Still one minute over the target. He wrote it down.

Countermeasure: memorize common ratios. Modularize mental calculation. Write down only the key steps and results. Discard lengthy derivations.

Evening self-study. 6:30 p.m. The classroom was full. The fluorescent tubes hummed. The air smelled of old books and sweat. Lin Chen finished that day’s assignments and closed his workbook. He checked the time. 9:10. Twenty minutes until lights-out. He packed his schoolbag. Cardboard. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Triangle set square. He counted them one by one and put them into the canvas bag. Zipped it shut. No candles left. He would use the corridor’s emergency light instead.

9:30. The lights-out bell rang. The corridor darkened in an instant. Chaotic footsteps. Sounds of washing up. Snatches of conversation. Lin Chen waited. Counted to one hundred. The noise gradually thinned out. He pushed the door open and walked along the wall. At the end of the corridor, the emergency light was on. Dim yellow. The edges of its glow blurred.

He crouched down with his back against the wall, out of the draft, and opened his English vocabulary book. Time limit: ten minutes. Only twenty words. Not greedy. Aim for mastery. His pen moved over the paper. Copying. Phonetic symbols. Part of speech. Example sentence. Not one item left out. The light was dim. The handwriting small. He leaned in close. His eyes stung. He blinked and kept going.

He checked the time. Nine minutes. One minute left. Review. Spelling. Correct.

He closed the book. His fingers were frozen stiff, his joints aching with cold. He hugged the canvas bag to his chest and stood up. His knees gave a faint crack. The pain in the soles of his feet had become a dull throb, like a needle lodged constantly in the ends of his nerves. Step by step, he walked back to the fourth floor. Pushed open the door. The dormitory was quiet. Only the steady sound of breathing.

He went to his bed and sat down. Took off his shoes. Untied the rubber boots. Poured out the cardboard inserts. The edge of the gauze on the soles of his feet had curled up. The cracks had scabbed over, dark red in color. No pus. He picked up the red antiseptic solution and a cotton swab, dipped it, and applied it. Sharp pain. He held his breath. Spread it evenly. Wrapped it again. The movements were slow, but extremely steady.

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

Tomorrow. 6:30, morning reading, read aloud. 7:00, breakfast. 8:00, class. 12:00, noon break. 16:00, receive the materials at the school gate. 18:30, evening self-study. 21:30, return to the dorm. Wash up. Sleep.

Step by step, leaving a mark each time.

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

Day 22. 22:15. 12V power supply mental calculation compressed. Time reduced by 11 minutes. Old rain boots fitted successfully. Official seal obtained. Tractor handoff tomorrow at 16:00.

Progress: modularized mental calculation for the electricity unit. Anti-slip gear secured. Postal-route backup has entered execution. English vocabulary Section C at 45%.

Time spent: all day.

Status: on target.

Gap: funds 0.76. meal tickets 0.32. foot injury not healed. Sweat buildup in rubber boots; infection prevention needed.

New variable: mental calculation time still exceeds target by 1 minute. Significant-figure estimation must be standardized. Tractor handoff window is narrow.

Countermeasure: tomorrow morning during break, standardize the estimated digit. Prepare the handoff checklist at the same time. Funding gap: no action for now. Preserve written exam eligibility.

The pencil paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The edges of the pages curled. He stuffed it into the bottom of his bag and pinned it down.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Very light. Even rhythm. The teacher on night patrol. A flashlight beam swept past the crack in the door and stopped.

“Get to sleep early. Twenty-three days left until finals. Don’t stay up too late.”

The voice was low, echoing faintly.

“Got it,” the boy in the bunk below replied vaguely.

Lin Chen said nothing. His hands rested on his knees, moving slowly. The pain in his soles had gone numb. His body was hollowed out, but he still didn’t sleep. Outside the window, the clouds had scattered. 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 red ink. The paper was warm, its edges curled. He unfolded it and read it once. Reporting. The time had passed, but the rules remained. Step by step, leaving a mark each time. No disorder allowed. 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 steadied. In his mind he arranged the schedule again.

Tomorrow. 16:00. School gate. Material handoff. Step by step, leaving a mark each time.

The wind outside passed through the cracks with a low whistle. Far away came the faint sound of a broadcast. County No. 1 High School campus radio. Sound check. Static. Then the weather announcer’s voice:

“Tomorrow’s weather: cloudy turning overcast. Light scattered snow beginning in the evening. Mountain roads may ice over easily. Faculty and students are advised to take care when traveling.”

The sound 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 looked pale. He reached out, found the pencil, and drew an extremely faint line across a blank page.

Day 22. End.

Progress: mental-calculation compression. Equipment secured. Official-seal handoff arranged.

Status: alive.

New variable: forecast of light snow. Risk of ice on mountain roads. Tractor handoff may be affected by weather.

Countermeasure: tomorrow morning, one hour earlier than usual, inspect the tread on the rubber boots. Prepare backup straps. If snowfall intensifies, adjust the handoff route.

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

Tomorrow. 16:00. School gate.

He turned over to face the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. His fingers absently rubbed the metal zipper pull on the canvas bag. Cold. Rough. Like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his mind, no words. Only two numbers.

Tuesday. Early morning. 5:30.

Two lines crossing in the dark. Not colliding. Not entangling. Each moving forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the window glass, leaving behind a thin layer of frost.