Chapter 43: Frost Road and Handover

5:30. The alarm had not gone off. His body clock woke first. Lin Chen opened his eyes. The ceiling was gray-white. The window glass was covered in frost flowers, their edges blurred. He turned his head and listened. The wind had stopped. In the dormitory, there was only the heavy breathing of the boy in the lower bunk. He threw back the blanket. Cold air instantly pressed against his skin. Goosebumps rose. He dressed quickly, moving lightly, making no rustling sound. His feet touched the floor and slid into his old rubber rain boots. The soles were icy cold. He walked to the window and pushed it open a crack. The concrete yard outside was coated in a layer of white frost. The streetlamp glowed dim yellow. Fine grains of snow drifted through its halo, landing without a sound. The temperature had dropped sharply. He drew his hand back and shut the window. He checked the boot shafts, tightened the straps, flattened the cardboard inserts. The gauze over the split spots was dry. The dull swelling was still there. But he could walk.

6:00. Corridor. The emergency lights were still on, their halos blurred at the edges. He crouched by the corner of the wall, out of the draft, and opened his physics notebook of corrected mistakes. Blank page. Pencil hovering. Estimating significant figures. Yesterday’s bottleneck. Rule: when the needle stands in the middle of a scale mark, estimate half a division. If it leans left or right, estimate one-third or two-thirds. No hesitation. He fixed the rules in place. Middle meant five. Off-center meant three or seven. Once the pencil touched paper, the answer was final. No going back to change it. He closed his eyes and simulated the meter in his mind. A 12V power source. External resistance 15 ohms. Current 0.8A. The needle pointed to the 40th small division on the 0.6A scale. Full deflection, 60 divisions. Each division, 0.01A. The needle sat between 40 and 41, slightly to the right. Estimated reading: 0.807A. He opened his eyes and wrote it straight onto the page. 0.807. No crossing out. No correction. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty times. His fingers went numb with cold. The pencil tip dragged harshly. He breathed warm air onto his hands and continued. Muscle memory began to overwrite hesitation. The time dropped from one minute over the limit to thirty seconds. He wrote down: Rule fixed. Middle means five. Right-leaning means seven. Once the pencil falls, do not doubt.

7:50. Morning self-study ended. Into the classroom. Physics. Chemistry. Math. English. Lin Chen did not lift his head. The pencil point never stopped. Between classes, no rest. He continued mental calculations. 12V power supply. Different resistances. Different ranges. Needle positions. Estimated readings. Write. Check. Fragments of time were chopped into fixed modules. He no longer pursued speed. He pursued zero mistakes. A written exam without scratch paper. The margin for error was zero. One wrong digit, and the entire big problem became worthless. He had to turn estimation into an instinct as natural as breathing. He spread out a blank test sheet and set a time limit. Twenty minutes. Five sets of data, worked through in succession. No process written, only results. Slope. Intercept. Significant figures. The pencil traced extremely fine lines, even in pressure, without shaking. Time up. He stopped. Checked. Every answer correct. Within time. He closed the notebook, tightened his fingers, curled the page edges, and shoved it to the bottom of his bag, pressing it down.

Noon. Cafeteria. The clouds hung even lower. The snow grains thickened, striking his face with a cool sting. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the crowd, then walked to a long bench and opened his oiled paper packet. The rice was hard. The dish was cabbage stewed with tofu, with barely any oil. He broke it apart and swallowed it with the cold broth. At least it put something in his stomach. Inside the rubber boots, his feet felt stuffy and sweaty. He shifted his weight to the outside edges. He did not take them off. When he finished eating, he cleaned up, leaving no trace, and went back to the classroom. At lunch break, he did not sleep. He spread open his English vocabulary book, Section C. Timed. Twenty minutes. Advance to 50%. His pencil moved across the page. Copying. Silent recitation. Spelling. No errors. He closed the book and shut his eyes, running through the key points of the day’s lessons in his mind. Physics: Ohm’s law for closed circuits. Experiment: measuring resistance with the volt-ampere method. Sources of error: internal resistance of the meters. Systematic error. Random error. He sorted the logic out. He did not memorize problems. He memorized principles. Once the principles were clear, problem types were only shells.

2:00 in the afternoon. Group calisthenics had been canceled. He stayed in the classroom and kept breaking down the gap in his motion-sickness medicine plan. Tuesday meant going to City No. 3 High School. Two hours on the road. Mountain roads. Many turns. He got carsick. He had to bring medicine. Blister pack. White tablets. Six of them. Already bought. He repacked them, two tablets per dose, cutting little compartments from stiff cardboard, fitting them inside, then sliding them into the pocket against his chest. His fingers tightened. The edge of the cloth packet dug into his palm. Funds. 0.76. Meal tickets. 0.32. Tuesday. Written exam. Noon. No meal provided. He needed money. Two steamed buns. A bowl of hot soup. Otherwise his stomach would be empty, his hands would shake, his strokes would wobble, and he would lose points. He did the arithmetic. Shortfall: about 0.5 yuan. Source: recycling station. Old newspapers and books. Aluminum cans. He wrote it down. Saturday. 14:00. East Town recycling station. Target: 0.5 yuan.

3:40. The dismissal bell rang. Lin Chen packed his schoolbag. Canvas bag. Stiff cardboard. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Triangle. He checked them one by one and zipped it shut. He stood, went out. The corridor was cold. Wind poured up from the stairwell, carrying the raw smell of snow. He went downstairs, footsteps steady. The rubber soles scraped against the terrazzo steps with a dull sound. The anti-slip grip worked. But the boot shafts were stiff, rubbing his ankles raw. He endured it and did not stop to adjust them. Out of the teaching building. The playground was empty. Snow grains fell onto the dead grass and melted at once. The ground was slick. He walked to the school gate. The iron gate stood half open. The guardroom light was on. Old Li was on duty. Seeing him, he nodded. “You’re here.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Waiting for the vehicle.”

Old Li handed him an old umbrella. “Take it. The snow’s going to get heavier.”

Lin Chen accepted it. The ribs were rusted. The canopy was faded. But it would block the snow. He opened it and stood by the gatepost, out of the wind, checking his watch. 16:00 sharp.

From the distance came the roar of a diesel engine. Putt-putt-putt. Deep, labored, as if wheezing. A blue farm tractor turned in from the dirt road by the town and entered the school gate. The truck bed was piled with burlap sacks. The driver was a dark-faced man in an old army coat and a dogskin hat. The vehicle stopped and the engine died. The driver jumped down, stamping his feet and breathing white vapor.

“County No. 1 High?” he asked.

Lin Chen stepped forward. “Yes. The certificate for Qingshi Village.”

The driver looked him over, his gaze dropping to the rubber boots on Lin Chen’s feet. He asked no further questions. He held out a hand. “Give it here.”

Lin Chen took the envelope from the pocket inside his clothes. The red seal of the official stamp stood out sharply in the dim light. He passed it over. The driver took it, squeezed it lightly to check the thickness, then tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.

“Tomorrow morning, seven o’clock. Under the old locust tree at the town entrance. Don’t be late. The road’s slick. The vehicle will be slow. If you fall, nobody’s looking after you.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Thank you, Uncle.”

The driver turned, climbed back up, and started the engine. The diesel roared again. Black smoke coughed out. The truck bed jolted as the tractor drove out through the school gate. The tires grated sharply over the wet, slick ground. Lin Chen stood where he was, the umbrella tilted, snow grains pattering against the cloth with a dry rustle. He folded the umbrella. Water droplets ran down the ribs. The envelope had been handed over. The official seal had changed hands. The gap left by the broken postal route had been patched. But a new variable had arrived. Snow. Ice. Road.

He turned and headed back to the dormitory, quickening his pace. The wind was colder now. The snow grains had become flakes, swirling thick and fast. The halos of the streetlamps were cut into fragments. He climbed back to the fourth floor and pushed open the door. No one was inside. The boy from the lower bunk had gone to play ball. He sat on the edge of his bed, took off his shoes, loosened the rubber boots, and dumped out the cardboard inserts. The edge of the gauze at the bottom of his foot was slightly damp. The scabbed cracks felt tight. No suppuration. He picked up the red antiseptic solution and a cotton swab, dipped it, and applied it. A sharp sting. He held his breath and spread it evenly, then wrapped the wound again. Every movement was slow. Every movement steady. He lay back and closed his eyes. In his mind he was arranging the timetable. Tomorrow. 6:30, morning study. 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. Tuesday. Early morning. 5:30, assemble. Tractor. 7:00, town entrance. Two-hour ride. Mountain road. Ice. He had to prepare in advance. Traction. Warmth. Motion-sickness medicine. Money. He felt for his ledger, opened it, and moved his pencil.

Day 23. 19:40. Significant-figure estimation rule fixed in place. Tractor handover completed.

Progress: mental estimation time compressed to within 30 seconds. English Section C 50%. Postal-route backup loop closed.

Time spent: all day.

Status: on target.

Gap: funds 0.76. Meal tickets 0.32. Foot injury not healed. Sweat trapped in rubber boots; infection must be prevented.

New variable: snowfall intensifying. Risk of icy roads confirmed. Tractor driver warned that the roads are slick and the vehicle will be slow. Tuesday assembly time 5:30. Must move wake-up earlier to 4:30. Leave walking time buffer for icy stretches.

Countermeasure: during morning break tomorrow, reinforce the boot straps. Prepare an old towel to wrap the ankles against freezing. Repack motion-sickness medicine. Funding shortfall: not handled for now. Protect the written exam.

The pencil paused. He closed the ledger, tightened his fingers, curled the page edges, and shoved it to the bottom of the bag, pressing it down. Heavy footsteps came from the corridor, accompanied by rough breathing. The night patrol teacher. A flashlight beam swept past the crack in the door, then stopped.

“Sleep early. Twenty-three days until finals. Heavy snow, slick roads. Don’t run around tomorrow.”

“Understood,” Lin Chen answered. His hands rested on his knees, moving slowly. The pain in the sole of his foot had gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. Outside the window, the flakes thickened, striking the glass with fine, scattered taps. Wind threaded through the cracks with a low whistle.

He slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his clothes and felt the aluminum blister pack of motion-sickness pills. Its edge was sharp, pressing into his palm. He took it out and set it by the bed. White tablets. Six of them. Enough for two trips. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his mind, no words, only two lines. One was the estimation rule: middle means five, right-leaning means seven. The other was an icy road surface: tread pattern on rubber soles, center of gravity shifted forward, never step on the edge. The two lines crossed in the dark. They did not collide. They did not entangle. Each moved forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the window. Frost flowers spread across the glass like a complicated circuit diagram. He closed his eyes, breathing evenly. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was cold and rough, like an unpolished stone.

Tomorrow. 4:30. Get up.

He turned over, facing the wall. His breathing slowly softened. Outside the window, the snow fell harder and harder, covering the playground, covering the dead grass, covering the teaching building in the distance. Everything was leveled away. Nothing left but white. And cold.

Late night. Eleven o’clock. The dormitory building had gone completely quiet. Lin Chen was not asleep. His eyes were open, fixed on the cracks in the ceiling. His mind was reviewing. Estimation rule. Fixed. Handover completed. Loop closed. But funds. 0.76. Meal tickets. 0.32. Tuesday. Going to City No. 3 High. Written exam. Noon. No meal provided. He needed money. Two steamed buns. A bowl of hot soup. Otherwise his stomach would be empty, his hands would shake, his strokes would waver, and he would lose points. He sat up, found the ledger, and opened it. Blank page. The pencil moved. Gap: lunch money. About 0.5 yuan. Source: recycling station. Old newspapers and books. Aluminum cans. He stopped. The pencil hovered. Recycling station. Weekend. Afternoon. Two-hour window. He calculated. Distance. Time cost. Physical expenditure. Return. Risk. Worth it. He wrote: Saturday. 14:00. East Town recycling station. Old newspapers and books. Aluminum cans. Target: 0.5 yuan. The pencil paused. He set it down. Closed his eyes. Snow was still falling. The wind had tightened. In the frost on the glass, a thin crack split open like a needle pointing toward a scale.

From the far end of the corridor came the faint sound of the school broadcast. Static. Then the voice of the weather announcer.

“Tomorrow’s forecast. Cloudy turning to light snow. Roads in the mountain areas may ice over. Teachers and students are advised to reduce unnecessary travel.”

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

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the ledger by the bedside. The page looked pale. He reached out, touched the pencil, and drew an extremely faint line across the blank page.

Day 23. End.

Progress: estimation fixed in place. Handover loop closed.

Status: alive.

New variable: funding shortfall for Tuesday’s written-exam lunch. Recycling path to cash conversion mapped out.

Countermeasure: execute Saturday afternoon. At the same time, inspect boot straps and prepare backup anti-freeze towel.

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

Tomorrow. 4:30.

He turned over, facing the wall. His breathing slowly softened. His fingers unconsciously 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. Saturday. Fourteen hundred. Two lines crossing in the dark, without collision, without entanglement, each moving forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the windowpane, leaving a thin layer of frost.