Chapter 45: Heavy Frost and Scale Stars

4:50 a.m. Lin Chen opened his eyes. The darkness was thick. In the dorm, the only sound was the steady breathing of the boy in the lower bunk. He threw off the blanket. Cold air crawled up against his skin. He dressed quickly. Quietly. No rustle of fabric. His feet touched the floor. He stepped into his old rubber rain boots. The soles were icy. The chill shot up from the bottoms of his feet. He walked to the window and pushed it open a crack. The snow in the courtyard had stopped. The ground was covered with a hard crust. The streetlamp glowed a dim yellow. Icicles formed in the halo of light. He drew his hand back and shut the window. He checked the shafts of his boots. Tightened the straps. Flattened the cardboard insoles. The gauze over the crack in the sole was dry. The dull swelling sensation was still there. But he could walk.

He dragged out a woven sack from under the bed. Gray-white, with frayed edges. He tied the mouth shut with a slipknot of hemp rope. Into his canvas bag he packed a piece of stiff cardboard, a pencil, and his account book. The gloves were old woolen ones his mother had sewn. Holes had worn through at the fingertips. He put them on. His fingers could still move. He pushed open the door. The hallway was empty. The emergency light glowed dimly, its halo blurred at the edges. He kept close to the wall, avoiding the draft. His steps were steady. The rubber soles scraped dully against the terrazzo stairs. The anti-slip tread worked. But the boot shafts were stiff, chafing his ankles. He endured it. Did not stop to adjust. He leaned his center of gravity forward. Every step landed solidly.

5:00 a.m. The teaching building. The side door was unlocked. The iron bolt was rusted. He pulled hard. It opened with a shrill scrape. The stairwell smelled of chalk dust and old wooden desks. The air was stagnant. He switched on his flashlight. The beam swept over the floor—dust, paper scraps. He walked to the back door of Senior Year Class Seven. The door was ajar. He pushed it open and went in. The desks and chairs were neatly arranged. On the blackboard remained the countdown from last week’s practice exam. The chalk writing had already blurred. He went to the wastebasket at the back of the classroom and crouched down. Using the cardboard, he pushed aside the top layer. Inside were crumpled drafts, discarded mock exam papers, corners curled, handwriting blurred by water stains. He unfolded them one by one. Smoothed them flat. Shook off the dust. Stacked them by size. Stuffed them into the woven sack. Very light. About two jin.

He kept going. Senior Year Class Eight. Class Nine. The corridor outside the offices. Trash cans. Paper baskets. The motions repeated. No extra sound. His fingers stiffened in the cold. The wool gloves could not keep out the chill. His fingertips went numb. He breathed into his hands to warm them and continued. The paper was rough. Its edges snagged the fibers of his gloves and scraped across his fingertips, leaving thin pale marks. No blood, but a sharp sting. He did not stop. Estimate five at the midpoint. Seven if it leans to the right. The rule turned in his mind. His hands moved in rhythm with it. Unfold. Smooth. Stack. Pack. Muscle memory overrode hesitation. At 6:20, the morning reading bell was about to ring. He stopped and counted. The woven sack bulged. By eye, about eighteen jin. Four jin short. At the turn of the stairs he spotted a stack of abandoned old study guides, covers torn, pages yellowing—left behind by the previous graduating class. He hefted them. About five jin. He stuffed them all into the sack. Tightened the hemp rope. Knotted it. Hoisted it onto his shoulder. The weight pressed against his collarbone. His breathing quickened slightly. He shifted his balance, leaning to the right, and quickened his pace.

7:40 a.m. Morning reading began. The sound of recitation drifted across campus. Lin Chen avoided the main road and climbed out over the side wall. Snow on the top was wet and slippery. He wedged his foot into a crack between the bricks and used it for leverage to jump down. When he landed, the rubber boot on his right foot slipped. His body pitched sharply. He bent his knees at once, dropping his center of gravity, bracing himself with his left hand on the ground. His palm scraped the ice. A stinging pain. The woven sack slipped from his shoulder and rolled half a meter away. He got back up, brushed off the snow, checked the sack. Not torn. A sudden sharp pain shot from the crack in the sole of his foot. He held his breath and waited for it to pass. Then he kept walking.

The scrap station in the east of town stood beside the highway. A corrugated metal shed. A weigh scale. The owner was a balding man in an army coat with a cigarette between his fingers. Seeing Lin Chen, he exhaled a white plume. “Out this early.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Selling paper.”

The owner pinched out the cigarette and walked to the scale. “Put it on.”

Lin Chen hoisted the sack and set it on the iron platform. The needle swung, then settled. The owner lowered his head to read it and tapped the dial with a fingernail. “Nineteen and a half jin. Paper. Old books. Damp weight. Deduct two jin. Count it as seventeen and a half. Two fen a jin. Thirty-five cents.”

Lin Chen said nothing. He watched the needle. Damp weight. Deduction. Standard practice. Snowmelt soaked the paper fibers, making the weight falsely high. The owner had not forced the price lower. He nodded. “Thirty-five cents.”

The owner fished three one-jiao notes and one five-fen note from a drawer and handed them over. The edges of the bills were rough, carrying the smell of ink and tobacco. He took them and slipped them into the inner pocket against his chest. His fingers tightened. Cloth rubbed lightly against paper with the faintest rustle.

“No cans?” the owner asked.

Lin Chen shook his head. “Next time.”

The owner turned away and resumed smoking. Lin Chen turned and left. His pace quickened. The wind was colder. The snow had thinned into fine pellets that struck his face with a cool tap. He touched the thirty-five cents in his pocket. Added to the 0.76 he already had, that made 1.11 yuan. Enough for two steamed buns and a bowl of hot soup. Tuesday’s written exam. Noon. Empty stomach. Shaking hands. Lost points. He had to preserve this money. Not spend it. Not touch it. Earmarked for one purpose only.

8:50 a.m. Morning reading ended. Lin Chen climbed back over the wall and returned to school. He entered through the side door. The corridor was cold. Wind poured up from the stairwell, carrying the raw scent of snow. He went upstairs, steps steady. The rubber soles pressed onto the iced stair treads. Center of gravity forward. Do not step on the edges. The anti-slip pattern bit into the ice with a fine crunch. Effective. He returned to the fourth floor and pushed open the door. No one was in the dorm. The boy from the lower bunk had gone to the dining hall. He sat down by the bed, took off his shoes, untied the rubber boots, and dumped out the cardboard insoles. The edge of the gauze on the sole of his foot was slightly damp. The scab over the crack felt tight. It had not festered. But the rubber along the inside of the boots had already gone hard from the cold. Fine cracks had appeared along the edge. He pressed it with his hand. The cracks spread. Water seeped through. He frowned. Tuesday. Mountain road. Ice. Tractor ride. Two hours. If the boots split, his feet would freeze. He would not be able to hold a pen.

He picked up the red antiseptic solution and a cotton swab. Dipped it. Applied it. A stab of pain. He held his breath and spread it evenly. Then bandaged the foot. His movements were slow, but extremely steady. Gauze wound around. A knot tied. Excess thread snipped off. He lay down and closed his eyes. In his head he arranged the schedule. Tomorrow. Sunday. Review. Monday. Fill in the gaps. Tuesday. Early morning. 5:30. Assemble. Tractor. 7:00. Town entrance. Two-hour ride. Mountain road. Ice. He had to prepare in advance. Anti-slip. Warmth. Motion-sickness medicine. Money. He reached for the account book, opened it, and moved the pencil.

Day 25. 09:10. Scrap station settlement. Funds credited: 0.35.

Progress: collected 19.5 jin. After deduction: 17.5 jin. Converted to cash: 0.35. Total funds: 1.11.

Time spent: 4 hours 20 minutes.

Status: target met.

Gap: Tuesday lunch expense now covered. New risk added: rubber boots freezing and cracking. Backup plan required.

New variable: aging rubber on the inside of the boots has begun to split. Accelerated by low temperature. Water seepage likely during Tuesday’s long ride.

Countermeasure: request spare rubber shoes from the logistics storeroom on Sunday. If none available, wrap ankles in double layers of plastic bags. Thicken with old towels. Prevent frostbite.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the account book. His fingers tightened, curling the edge of the pages, then shoved it deep into the bottom of the bag and pinned it there. Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor, with labored breathing. The night patrol teacher. A flashlight beam swept past the crack in the door and stopped. “Don’t run around over the weekend. Heavy snow, slippery roads. Twenty-two days until finals.” His voice was low and echoed slightly.

“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, snowflakes thickened, tapping against the glass in small, broken patters. Wind threaded through the gaps with a low whistling howl.

He slipped a hand into the inner pocket against his chest and felt the blister pack of motion-sickness tablets. The foil edges were sharp against his palm. He took it out and set it by the bedside. White tablets. Six of them. Enough for two trips. He closed his eyes. In his mind there were no formulas, no vocabulary words. Only two lines. One was the rule for estimated reading: five at the midpoint, seven if it leans right. The other was an 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 moved forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the window glass. Frost flowers spread there like a complicated circuit diagram. He closed his eyes. His breathing steadied. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was icy and rough, like an unpolished stone.

Tomorrow. Sunday. Review. Apply for rubber shoes.

He turned over to face the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. Outside the window, the snowfall grew heavier and heavier, covering the athletic field, the dead grass, the teaching building in the distance. Everything was being smoothed flat. Nothing left but white. And cold.

Late at night. Eleven o’clock. The dormitory building had gone completely quiet. Lin Chen was still awake. His eyes were open, fixed on the crack in the ceiling. In his mind he was reviewing. Scrap station. Closed loop. Funds. 1.11 yuan. Gap. Filled. But the rubber boots. Split. Low temperature. Long ride. Risk. He sat up, found the account book, and opened it. A blank page. The pencil moved. Tuesday. Written exam. Municipal No. 3 High School. Test room. No heating. He stopped. The pencil hovered. Municipal No. 3 High School. Last year, he had been there once. The exam room was in the old teaching building. The windows leaked wind. In winter, his hands froze stiff. He could barely grip a pen. He had to bring a hand warmer. Or a hot-water bottle. He calculated. Cost. Return. Risk. Worth it. He wrote: Sunday. Morning market. Buy a rubber hot-water bottle. Fill with hot water. Keep warm in the exam room. The pencil tip paused. He set it down and closed his eyes. The snow was still falling. The wind tightened. A fine crack split one of the frost flowers on the glass, like a pointer aimed at a mark on a dial.

From the far end of the corridor came the faint sound of the school broadcast. Static first. Then the dean of studies’ voice.

“Notice. The written exam room for the winter camp at Municipal No. 3 High School has been confirmed: third floor of the old teaching building. There will be no central heating. Candidates are requested to bring their own warm items. In addition, this year’s written exam will include an extra question. It will not count toward the total score, but it will affect allocation of winter camp placements. The question type is an open-response essay. Time limit: thirty minutes. Candidates are advised to manage their pacing accordingly.”

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

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the account book by the bedside. The pages looked faintly white. He reached out, found the pencil, and drew a very light line across the blank page.

Day 25. End.

Progress: funds made up. Rubber boots cracking. Exam room conditions confirmed.

Status: alive.

New variables: extra question. Unheated exam room. Risk of rubber boots failing.

Countermeasure: secure warmth and backup shoes on Sunday. The extra question does not count toward total score, but affects placement allocation. Reserve 20 minutes for it.

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

Tomorrow. Sunday.

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 icy and rough, like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. In his mind there were no formulas, no words. Only three things: Sunday. Morning market. Extra question. Two lines crossed in the dark. They did not collide. Did not tangle. Each moved forward on its own. Night dew gathered on the window glass, leaving behind a thin layer of frost.