Chapter 44: Morning Frost and Calculation

Four-thirty. The alarm had not gone off. His body clock woke first. Lin Chen opened his eyes. The darkness was thick. In the dormitory there was only the even breathing of the boy in the lower bunk. He threw back the blanket. The cold air pressed against him like blades. A fine layer of gooseflesh rose over his skin at once. He dressed quickly. Quietly. Without making the slightest rustling sound. His feet touched the floor. He stepped into the old rubber rain boots. The rubber soles were so cold they stabbed to the bone. The chill crawled up from the bottoms of his feet. He went to the window and pushed it open a crack. The snow in the yard had stopped. The ground was covered with a hard crust. The streetlamp was dim yellow. Icicles hung in its halo. The temperature was below freezing. He drew his hand back and shut the window. He checked the boot shafts. Tied the straps tight. Flattened the cardboard insoles. The gauze over the split skin was dry. The dull swelling was still there. But he could walk.

Four-fifty. Washroom. The faucet ran with biting cold water. White frost clung to the metal pipes. He caught half a basin. Soaked the towel. Wringing it out, he pressed it to his face. It went numb instantly. He scrubbed hard. His cheeks reddened. He dried off. Put on his padded jacket. Pulled the zipper all the way to the top. He checked the canvas bag. Three pencils. Sharpened. Two erasers. A ruler. A set square. Motion-sickness pills in a foil pack. Into the inner pocket. Ledger. Cardboard. He counted them one by one. Zipped the bag shut. He pushed open the door. The corridor was empty. The emergency light was a dull yellow, its halo blurred at the edges. He kept close to the wall, avoiding the drafts. His steps were steady. The rubber soles dragged over the terrazzo stairs with a muffled scraping sound. Good traction. But the boot shafts were stiff, rubbing his ankles raw. He endured it. Did not adjust them. Shifted his center of gravity forward. Planted every step solidly.

Five o'clock. Classroom. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and went in. The fluorescent lights were off. Only the weak light from outside filtered through the windows. The air smelled of chalk dust and old wooden desks. He went to his seat and sat down. Opening his notebook of physics mistakes, he turned to a blank page. The pencil hovered. Estimation of significant figures. The rules had already set. Estimate five if it falls in the middle. Estimate seven if it leans right. Once the pencil touched paper, do not hesitate. He closed his eyes. In his mind he pictured the dial. A 12V power source. An external resistance of 15 ohms. Current 0.8A. The pointer on the 0.6A range at the 40th small division. Full deflection, 60 divisions. Each division, 0.01A. The pointer sat between 40 and 41. Leaning right. Estimated reading: 0.807A. He opened his eyes and wrote directly on the page. 0.807. No crossing out. No corrections. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty times. His fingers grew stiff with cold. The pencil tip dragged. The paper was coarse. Graphite shaved into fine dust against the fibers. He breathed into his hands to warm them and kept going. Muscle memory began to overwrite hesitation. The time stabilized at 28 seconds. He wrote it down. Rules fixed. Time on target.

Five-forty. The morning reading bell rang. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Classmates came in one after another. The rustle of cotton coats. The sound of breath steaming. Chairs and desks knocking against each other. Lin Chen did not look up. The pencil never stopped. English, Section C. Timed. Twenty minutes. Progress to 55%. The pencil moved steadily. Copying. Phonetics. Parts of speech. Sample sentences. Not one missed. The light was dim. The handwriting small. He bent closer. His eyes ached. He blinked and continued. He checked the time. Nineteen minutes. One minute left. Review. Spelling. No mistakes. He closed the book. His fingers were numb with cold. The joints felt dry and stiff. Hugging the canvas bag to his chest, he stood up. His knees gave a faint crack. The pain in the soles of his feet had become a dull ache, like a needle lodged in the tips of his nerves. He went to the window and looked at the athletic field. The snow lay smooth, marked only by a few deep, hard tire tracks. He drew back his gaze, returned to his seat, and closed his eyes. In his mind he went over the key points of the day's classes. Physics: Ohm's law for a closed circuit. Experiment: measuring resistance with the volt-ampere method. Sources of error: internal resistance of the meter. Systematic error. Random error. He sorted the logic out clearly. Do not memorize problems. Memorize principles. Once the principle was understood, question types were only shells.

Seven o'clock. Morning reading ended. Classes began. Physics. Chemistry. Mathematics. English. Lin Chen did not look up. The pencil never stopped. Between classes, he did not rest. He kept doing mental calculations. A 12V power source. Different resistances. Different ranges. Pointer positions. Estimated readings. Put the answer down. Check it. Time was cut into fixed modules. He no longer pursued speed. He pursued zero mistakes. A written test without scratch paper. The margin for error was zero. One wrong digit, and the whole big problem would score zero. He had to turn estimation into an instinct as natural as breathing. He spread out a blank test sheet. Timed. Twenty minutes. Five groups of data, derived in succession. No process written. Results only. Slope. Intercept. Significant figures. The pencil drew hair-thin lines. Even pressure. No shaking. Time was up. He stopped. Checked. All correct. Time on target. He closed the notebook. His fingers tightened. The edges of the pages curled. He shoved it to the bottom of the bag and weighed it down.

Noon. Cafeteria. The clouds pressed lower. The wind was hard. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the crowd, then went to a long bench. He opened the oil-paper packet. The rice was hard. The dish was cabbage stewed with tofu. Little oil. He broke it apart and swallowed it with cold broth. His stomach finally had something in it. His feet inside the rubber boots were stuffy and sweating. He shifted his weight, pressing outward. He did not take them off. After eating, he cleaned up, leaving no trace, then returned to the classroom. At noon break he did not sleep. He spread open the ledger. The pencil moved.

Funds: 0.76. Meal tickets: 0.32. Saturday. Fourteen hundred hours. East Town scrap station. Target: 0.5 yuan.

He calculated. Old books and newspapers. Market price: two fen per jin. Aluminum cans. Five fen each. He would need twenty-five jin of paper or ten cans. He pulled old exercise books from the drawer. Discarded by the twelfth-grade students. Corners curled. Handwriting blurred. He weighed them in his hand. About three jin. He was still short twenty-two. Sources. Things classmates threw away. Wastepaper baskets in the offices. He wrote it down. Saturday morning. Collect during breaks. Target: 22 jin.

Two in the afternoon. Between classes. A boy from the front row turned around. “Lin Chen. Where'd you get those rubber boots? They look pretty sturdy.”

Lin Chen looked up. “Borrowed them from the supply storeroom.”

The boy nodded. “This snow's really something. The whole field's frozen over. PE this afternoon is canceled. Study hall instead. Heard the roads by No. 3 High are even slicker. Even tractors don't dare go fast.”

Lin Chen nodded. He did not answer. The boy turned back and kept flipping through his book. Lin Chen lowered his head and resumed the calculations. A 12V power source. Different resistances. Different ranges. Pointer positions. Estimated readings. Put the answer down. Check it. Time was cut into fixed modules. He no longer pursued speed. He pursued zero mistakes. A written test without scratch paper. The margin for error was zero. One wrong digit, and the whole big problem would score zero. He had to turn estimation into an instinct as natural as breathing.

Three-forty. The dismissal bell rang. Lin Chen packed his schoolbag, stood up, and went out. The corridor was cold. Wind poured up the stairwell carrying the raw smell of snow. He went downstairs, his steps steady. The rubber soles came down on the iced-over stairs. Center of gravity forward. Do not step on the edges. The tread bit into the ice with tiny crunching sounds. Effective. He walked to the school gate. The iron gate was half open. The guardroom was lit. Old Li was on duty. Seeing him, he nodded. “Road's slippery. Take it slow.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Thank you, Uncle Li.”

Old Li handed him a newspaper. “From the town radio station. The scrap station's closing early on Saturday. Noon. Heavy snow. Roads sealed.”

Lin Chen took it. The edges of the paper were crusted with ice. He unfolded it and read the headline. Notice on Adjustment of Winter Materials Recycling Hours. The body was short. Because of icy roads, the East Town scrap purchasing station's Saturday business hours had been adjusted to 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 noon. It would not open in the afternoon.

He stood where he was. The newspaper in his hand stiffened in the cold. The time window had narrowed. Originally, the plan had been two o'clock. Now it had to be before noon. The distance had not changed, but the time for collecting had shrunk to Saturday morning break periods only. Two hours. He would have to redo the schedule. He folded the paper, stuffed it into his canvas bag, turned around, and went back to the dormitory. His pace quickened. The wind was colder. Snow grains became flakes, flying down in confusion. The halo of the streetlamps was cut into fragments. He climbed back to the fourth floor and pushed open the door. No one was in the dormitory. The boy in the lower bunk had gone to play ball. Lin Chen went to the bed and sat down. He took off his shoes, loosened the rubber boots, and emptied out the cardboard insoles. The edges of the gauze on the soles of his feet were slightly damp. The scab over the split skin felt tight. No pus. He picked up the red antiseptic and a cotton swab. Dipped it. Applied it. A stinging pain. He held his breath and spread it evenly. Then he rebandaged the wound. The movements were slow. But absolutely steady.

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

Tomorrow. Six-thirty: morning reading. Seven: breakfast. Eight: class. Twelve: noon break. Eighteen-thirty: evening study. Twenty-one-thirty: back to the dormitory. Wash up. Sleep.

One step after another, leaving prints.

Saturday. Morning. Collect wastepaper during breaks. Target: twenty-two jin. Before noon, deliver it to the scrap station. Exchange it for 0.5 yuan. Buy steamed buns and hot soup.

Tuesday. Early morning. Five-thirty. Assemble. Tractor. Seven o'clock. Town entrance. Two-hour ride. Mountain road. Ice.

He had to prepare in advance. Slip resistance. Warmth. Motion-sickness medicine. Funds.

He touched the ledger, opened it, and moved the pencil.

Day 24. 19:40. Scrap station business hours changed. Window compressed to Saturday morning. Progress: estimation time 28 seconds. English Section C 55%. Anti-slip test passed. Time spent: all day. Status: on target. Gap: funds 0.76. Meal tickets 0.32. Need to make 0.5 yuan on Saturday. New variable: scrap station open only until 12:00 on Saturday. Collection time insufficient. Must move action to before Saturday morning reading. Countermeasure: tomorrow at 5:00 a.m., go early to an empty classroom to sort discarded senior-year exercise books. Borrow wastepaper from each class during breaks. Weigh and bundle it before noon.

The pencil stopped. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The edges of the pages curled. He shoved it into the bottom of the bag and weighed it down. Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor, accompanied by labored breathing. The teacher on night patrol. A flashlight beam swept past the crack of the door and stopped. “Get to sleep early. Final exams in twenty-three days. Heavy snow, slippery roads. Don't run around tomorrow.” The voice was low, carrying an echo.

“Got it,” Lin Chen answered.

His hands rested on his knees, moving them slowly. The pain in his feet had gone numb. His body was drained hollow. But he did not sleep. Outside the window, the snowfall thickened, pattering against the glass in fine little taps. Wind passed through the cracks with a low whistling sound.

He slipped a hand into his inner pocket and felt the foil pack of motion-sickness pills. Its sharp edges pressed into his palm. He took it out and put it by the bed. White tablets. Six of them. Enough for two trips. He closed his eyes. In his mind there were no formulas. No words. Only two lines. One was the rule of estimation: if it falls in the middle, estimate five; if it leans right, estimate seven. The other was the icy road surface: rubber tread, center of gravity forward, do not step on the edges. The two lines crossed in the dark. They did not collide. Did not tangle. Each went forward on its own. Night moisture condensed on the windowpane. Frost flowers spread across the glass like a complicated circuit diagram. He closed his eyes. His breathing steadied. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull on the canvas bag. The metal was cold and rough, like an unpolished stone.

Tomorrow. Five o'clock. Move early.

He turned over to face the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. Outside the window, the snow fell harder and harder, covering the athletic field, covering the dead grass, covering the teaching building in the distance. Everything was smoothed away. Nothing left but white. And cold.

Late night. Eleven o'clock. The dormitory building was completely quiet. Lin Chen was still awake. He stared at the crack in the ceiling, reviewing things in his mind. Estimation rules. Fixed. Handover complete. Closed loop. But funds: 0.76. Meal tickets: 0.32. Tuesday. Going to No. 3 High School in the city. Written test. Noon. No meal provided. He needed money. To buy two steamed buns. A bowl of hot soup. Otherwise his stomach would be empty. His hands would shake. His pen strokes would not stay steady. Points would be lost. He sat up, felt for the ledger, opened it to a blank page, and moved the pencil.

Gap: lunch money. About 0.5 yuan. Source: scrap station. Old books and newspapers. Aluminum cans.

He stopped. The pencil hovered. Scrap station. Weekend. Morning. Two-hour time window. He calculated. Distance. Time. Physical expenditure. Return. Risk. Worth it. He wrote:

Saturday. 05:00. Inventory in empty classroom. 08:00–11:30. Collect during breaks. 11:45. Bundle and depart. Before 12:00. Deliver to East Town scrap station.

The pencil paused. He set it down. Closed his eyes. Snow was still falling. The wind tightened. In the frost flowers on the glass, a fine crack appeared, like a pointer aimed at a mark on a scale.

From the far end of the corridor came the faint sound of the loudspeaker. Static first, then the weather announcer's voice.

“Tomorrow's forecast: overcast turning to light snow. Roads in mountainous areas will be icy. Teachers and students are advised to reduce travel.”

The sound spread through the night wind, carrying a metallic coldness.

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

Day 24. End. Progress: estimation fixed. Handover closed loop. Time window adjusted. Status: alive. New variable: Saturday collection time compressed. Must move it to before morning reading. Countermeasure: tomorrow at 5:00 a.m., inventory discarded senior-year materials in the empty classroom. At the same time, check the boot straps. Prepare an anti-freeze towel as backup.

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

Tomorrow. Five o'clock.

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 and rough, like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. In his mind there were no formulas. No words. Only two numbers. Saturday. Five o'clock. Two lines crossed in the dark. They did not collide. Did not tangle. Each went forward on its own. Night moisture condensed on the windowpane, leaving a thin layer of frost.