Chapter 46: Warehouse and Morning Market

Five-thirty. Lin Chen opened his eyes. In the dormitory, the only sound was the creak of bedboards as the boy in the lower bunk turned over. He threw back his blanket. Cold air climbed over his skin. He dressed quickly. Quietly. Without making any rustling sounds. His feet touched the floor. Slid into his old rubber boots. The soles were icy cold. The chill shot upward through the bottoms of his feet. He walked to the window. Pushed it open a crack. The snow in the courtyard had stopped. The ground was covered in a hard crust. The streetlamp glowed dim yellow. Icicles had formed in its halo. He drew back his hand. Closed the window. Checked the tops of his boots. Tightened the straps. Flattened the cardboard insoles. The gauze over the split spots was dry. The dull swelling ache was still there. But he could walk.

He pulled a canvas bag from under the bed. Packed in his ledger, pencil, stiff cardboard, and gloves. Pushed open the door. The corridor was empty. The emergency light gave off a murky yellow glow, blurred at the edges. He kept close to the wall. Avoided the drafts. His steps were steady. The rubber soles made a low scraping sound on the terrazzo stairs. The anti-slip grip worked well. But the boot shafts were stiff, rubbing his ankles raw. He endured it. Did not stop to adjust them. Shifted his center of gravity forward. Made every step land firm.

Six-ten. The logistics storeroom. On the east side of the athletic field. A one-story red-brick building. The wooden door was half ajar. Heat from a coal stove leaked through the gap, carrying the smell of sulfur and old newspapers. Lin Chen knocked. Three times. A pause. Then twice more. Inside came the sound of slippers dragging against the floor. The door opened. Old Sun from logistics wore a faded blue padded jacket and held an enamel mug in one hand. When he saw Lin Chen, his brows drew together slightly. “Pretty early for a Sunday.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Teacher Sun. I’d like to apply for a spare pair of rubber boots.”

Old Sun set down the mug, turned, and pulled a registration book from an iron cabinet. The pages were yellowed, the corners curled. “Reason.”

“Written exam at No. 3 Middle School in the city on Tuesday. My current rubber boots cracked in the cold. Risk of leaking water. It could affect my grip on the pen.”

Old Sun glanced up and looked over the old boots on his feet. The rubber on the inner side had indeed hardened, the edges split with fine, dense cracks. He nodded. “School rules. To borrow shoes, you need either your homeroom teacher’s signature or a deposit. Which do you have?”

Lin Chen took a folded slip of paper from his inner pocket. The edges were already frayed from wear. It was a copy of the certificate his homeroom teacher had stamped on Friday. On the back was the teacher’s signature. Old Sun took it and held it to the light. The stamp was clear. The signature sloppy but legible. He closed the register. “All right. Only two pairs left in the storeroom. Size thirty-eight and thirty-nine. What do you wear?”

“Thirty-nine.”

Old Sun turned and went into the back room. The iron door screeched as it slid open. A few seconds later, he came back carrying a new pair of rubber boots. Black. The surface still had the talcum scent of the factory on it. The tread was deep. The edges clean. No cracks. Lin Chen took them. They were about half a jin heavier than his old pair. He crouched, pulled off the old boots. The edges of the gauze under his feet were slightly damp. The scabbed splits felt tight. No pus. He pulled on the new boots. Tightened the straps. Stood up. Stamped his feet. The rubber soles thudded dully on the cement floor. The anti-slip tread bit into the ground. No slipping. No leaking. He nodded.

“Thank you, Teacher Sun.”

Old Sun waved a hand. “Return them Tuesday. If you’re late, meal tickets get deducted by the day. Sign the register.”

Lin Chen picked up the pencil and wrote his name, the date, and the purpose on the blank page. The tip scored the paper fibers, leaving a clean indentation. He closed the register. Turned. Left.

Seven-twenty. The east-town morning market. At the fork in the national highway. Stalls lined both sides of the dirt road. Shelters made of plastic sheets. Coal stoves puffing white smoke. The air was thick with the raw smell of fresh pork, the charred sweetness of roasted sweet potatoes, and the earthy reek of frozen napa cabbage. Lin Chen walked along the stalls, his gaze sweeping over the sundries section. Bamboo baskets. Iron basins. Hemp rope. Plastic tubs. He stopped at a stall selling daily goods. The vendor was a middle-aged woman in a blue apron, placing eggs on the scale pan. Lin Chen crouched and looked into the corner of the stall. Rubber hot-water bottles. Two of them. One red, one blue. Their surfaces had a faint matte texture. He picked up the blue one and weighed it in his hand. About half a jin. He squeezed it. The rubber had spring to it, not stiff.

“How much?”

“Eighty fen,” the woman said without looking up.

Lin Chen said nothing. His fingers rubbed over the mouth of the hot-water bottle. The rubber ring was intact. The threads were clear. No signs of age cracks. He took out the money from his inner pocket. Three ten-fen notes. One one-fen coin. One two-fen coin. One five-fen coin. Plus yesterday’s thirty-five fen. And the original seventy-six fen. One yuan and eleven fen altogether. Buy the hot-water bottle, and he would have thirty-one fen left. Tuesday lunch. Two steamed buns. One bowl of clear soup. Just enough. He nodded.

“I’ll take this one.”

The woman took the money, wrapped it in old newspaper, and handed it over. The edges of the paper were crusted with ice. He took it and slipped it into his canvas bag. His fingers tightened. The fabric rubbed faintly against the paper with a soft rustle.

Eight-forty. The teaching building. The side door was unlocked. The iron bolt was rusted. He yanked it open with force, and it gave a harsh scraping screech. The hallway smelled of chalk dust and old wooden desks. The air was stagnant. He walked to the back door of Senior Year Class Seven and pushed it open. The desks and chairs were lined up neatly. On the blackboard was last week’s countdown to the mock exam, the chalk characters already blurred. He went to his seat and sat down. Took out the hot-water bottle from his canvas bag. Unscrewed the stopper. Went to the hot-water room at the end of the corridor and filled it halfway with warm water. About sixty degrees. Hot to the touch, but not boiling. He filled the bottle, screwed it tight, wrapped it in an old towel, and set it on the upper right corner of his desk. The rubber surface warmed quickly. Through the towel, the heat spread evenly.

He spread out a blank test sheet. His pencil hovered.

The broadcast announcement said: additional question. Open-response discussion. Thirty-minute limit. Not counted toward total score, but it would affect quota allocation. Unknown question type.

He closed his eyes and ran through the possible directions in his mind. Physics applications. Rural infrastructure. Resource allocation. Logical deduction. He did not need literary flair. He needed structure. He lowered his pencil and drew out a framework on the paper.

1. Description of the phenomenon (3 minutes). Objective statement. No lyricism. No judgment.

2. Extraction of core variables (5 minutes). Strip away interfering factors. Lock onto the key parameters.

3. Model construction (10 minutes). Use known principles to reason it through. List the assumptions.

4. Boundaries and error (7 minutes). Point out the model’s limits. Provide paths for correction.

5. Conclusion (5 minutes). Return to the prompt. Clarify the applicable scenario.

The pencil tip paused. He checked the time. The structure was complete. The logic closed. It depended on no extracurricular knowledge. Only on basic reasoning ability. He pulled out his physics mistake notebook and found a comprehensive problem on “power transmission loss in mountain regions.” The prompt was long. The data complicated. He gave himself thirty minutes. Wrote by the framework. No references. No books. Memory and deduction only. The pencil moved. The handwriting was neat. The pressure even. No tremor. Time was up. He stopped writing. Checked his work. Variable extraction accurate. Model simplification reasonable. Error analysis in place. Conclusion clear. He closed the notebook. His fingers tightened. The page edges curled. He shoved it into the bottom of his bag and pinned it down.

Noon. The cafeteria. The clouds hung even lower. The wind had hardened. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the crowd, then went to a long bench and opened his greasepaper parcel. 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 had something in it now. The new rubber boots on his feet were stuffy. His feet were sweating. He shifted his weight, pressing to the outside. Did not take them off. Finished eating. Cleaned up. Left no trace. Returned to the classroom.

At noon break, he did not sleep. He spread open the ledger. The pencil moved. Funds: 0.31. Hot-water bottle purchased. Rubber boots borrowed. Framework for the additional question solidified. He calculated. Tuesday. Early morning. Five-thirty. Assemble. Tractor. Seven o’clock. Town entrance. Two-hour ride. Mountain road. Ice. Exam room. No heating. Hands frozen stiff. Unable to hold the pen. He had to bring the hot-water bottle. Keep warm in the exam room. He wrote:

Fill the hot-water bottle with warm water. Wrap in towel. Place at desk corner. Warm hands for 30 seconds every 15 minutes. Do not interrupt answering rhythm.

Two in the afternoon. Between classes. The boy in the front row turned around. “Lin Chen, your foot’s better?”

Lin Chen looked up. “Borrowed a new pair.”

The boy nodded. “I heard the exam at No. 3 Middle School is hard this year. The additional question is open-response. They’re not testing rote memorization. They’re testing your thinking. Heard last year one candidate wrote three full pages, all lyrical stuff. Got a zero right away.”

Lin Chen nodded and said nothing. The boy turned back around and kept flipping through his book. Lin Chen lowered his head and continued doing calculations in silence. 12V power source. Different resistances. Different measuring ranges. Needle position. Estimated reading. Write it down. Check it. Time was broken into fixed modules. He was no longer chasing speed. He was chasing zero mistakes. In a written exam with no scratch paper, the margin for error was zero. One wrong number, and an entire major problem became worthless. He had to make estimated reading as instinctive as breathing.

Three-forty. The dismissal bell rang. Lin Chen packed his schoolbag, stood, and went out. The corridor was cold. Wind poured up from the stairwell carrying the rank scent of snow. He went downstairs, his steps steady. The rubber soles landed on frozen steps. Center of gravity forward. Do not step on the edges. The anti-slip tread bit into the ice, making a faint crunching squeak. Effective. He walked to the school gate. The iron gate was half open. The guardroom light was on. Old Li was on duty. Seeing him, he nodded. “Road’s slippery. Go slow.”

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

Old Li handed him a newspaper. “From the town radio station. There’s a black-ice warning for the mountain area on Tuesday. The tractor may be rerouted onto the old winding mountain road. Forty extra minutes.”

Lin Chen took it. Ice crusted the edges of the paper. He unfolded it and read the headline: Notice on Temporary Winter Traffic Controls for Mountain Roads. The body was brief. Due to continuous snowfall, the newly repaired county road from K14 to K19 had severe icing on the surface. On Tuesday, passenger vehicles would temporarily detour onto the old winding mountain road. Travel time was expected to increase by 40 minutes. Teachers and students were asked to plan their schedules in advance.

He stood there, the newspaper turning stiff in his hands. The time window had narrowed. The original two-hour ride was now two hours and forty minutes. Motion-sickness tablets. Six pills. Enough for two trips. He had to adjust the timing of the dose. Half an hour earlier. He folded up the paper and stuffed it into his canvas bag. Turned. Headed back to the dormitory. His pace quickened. The wind was colder now. Snow pellets became snowflakes, fluttering down thickly. The halos of the streetlamps were shredded into fragments. He climbed back 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 library. He sat on the edge of his bed. Took off his shoes. Untied the rubber boots. Pulled out the cardboard insoles. The edges of the gauze on the soles of his feet were slightly damp. The scabbed splits felt tight. No pus. He picked up the red antiseptic solution and a cotton swab. Dipped it. Applied it. Sharp pain. He held his breath. Spread it evenly. Wrapped it again. His movements were slow. But perfectly steady.

He lay down and closed his eyes. In his mind he arranged the time. Tomorrow. Monday. Fill in the gaps. Physics experiment modules. Final sprint on English Section C. Tuesday. Early morning. Five o’clock. Get up. Take medicine. Five-thirty. Assemble. Tractor. Seven o’clock. Town entrance. Travel time two hours and forty minutes. Mountain road. Ice. Black ice. He had to prepare in advance. Anti-slip. Warmth. Motion-sickness medicine. Funds. He touched the ledger, opened it, and moved the pencil.

Day 26. 16:10. Black-ice warning. Travel time extended by 40 minutes.

Progress: rubber boots borrowed. Hot-water bottle purchased. Framework for additional question fixed.

Time spent: full day.

Status: up to standard.

Shortfall: funds 0.31. Tuesday lunch covered. No surplus.

New variable: longer travel time. Motion-sickness medicine must be taken earlier. Center-of-gravity control on black ice needs adjustment.

Countermeasure: finish review of all mistake problems by 20:00 tomorrow night. Take medicine at 04:40 on Tuesday. Lower center of gravity on black ice. Shorten stride to 30 cm.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The page edges curled. He shoved it into the bottom of the bag and pinned 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.

“Don’t stay up late on Sunday. Twenty-one days until final exams. Heavy snow, slippery roads. Don’t run around tomorrow.”

“Understood,” Lin Chen answered.

His hands rested on his knees, moving slowly. The pain in the soles of his feet had gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But he did not sleep. Outside the window, the snowfall thickened, tapping the glass with fine pattering sounds. Wind passed through the cracks with a low whistle.

He slipped his hand into his inner pocket and touched the blister pack of motion-sickness pills. The edges were sharp against his palm. He took it out and set it by his bed. White tablets. Six of them. Enough for two trips. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. No vocabulary words. Only three lines. One was the rule for estimated readings: if it falls in the middle, estimate five; if it leans to the right, estimate seven. One was the frozen road surface: rubber tread, center of gravity forward, do not step on the edge. One was the framework for the additional question: phenomenon. Variables. Model. Error. Conclusion. The three lines crossed in the dark. Did not collide. Did not tangle. Each moved forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the window glass. Frost flowers spread across it like a complicated circuit diagram. He closed his eyes. His breathing steadied. His fingers unconsciously rubbed at the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was cold. Rough. Like an unpolished stone.

Tomorrow. Monday. Fill in the gaps.

He turned over, facing 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 distant school building. Everything was leveled flat. Nothing left but white. And cold.

Late night. Eleven o’clock. The dormitory building was completely quiet. Lin Chen was not asleep. His eyes were open, fixed on the cracks in the ceiling. In his mind he was reviewing. Rubber boots. Closed loop. Hot-water bottle. Closed loop. Additional question. Framework. But black ice. Forty minutes. Motion-sickness pills. Earlier. He sat up, found the ledger, opened it to a blank page, and moved the pencil. Tuesday. 04:40. Take medicine. 05:00. Assemble. 05:30. Depart. He stopped. The pencil tip hovered. No. 3 Middle School. Old classroom building. No heating. Hands frozen stiff. Unable to hold the pen. Hot-water bottle. Warmth retention. Warm hands every 15 minutes. No interruptions. He calculated. Time. Return. Risk. Worth it. He wrote: Black-ice section. Lower center of gravity. Stride 30 cm. Anti-slip tread engagement. Do not step on the edges. The pencil paused. He set it down. Closed his eyes. The snow was still falling. The wind was tighter now. A fine crack split one of the frost flowers on the glass, like a pointer aimed at a mark on a scale.

From the far end of the corridor came the faint sound of a broadcast. Electrical static. Then the weather announcer’s voice.

“Tomorrow’s weather: overcast turning partly cloudy. Black ice will persist on mountain roads. Passing vehicles are advised to slow down and proceed carefully.”

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

Day 26. End.

Progress: supplies complete. Contingency plan updated. Response to longer travel time in place.

Status: alive.

New variable: black ice persists. The old winding mountain road has many bends and steep grades. The tractor’s brake shoes may overheat.

Countermeasure: before boarding on Tuesday, check the temperature of the brake drum. Bring an old towel to pad the hands. Transfer anti-slip center-of-gravity control to inside the vehicle carriage.

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

Tomorrow. Monday.

He turned over, facing the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. His fingers unconsciously rubbed at the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was cold. Rough. Like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. No vocabulary words. Only three things: Monday. Tuesday. Black ice. Three lines crossing in the dark. Not colliding. Not tangling. Each moving forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the window glass. A thin layer of frost formed.