Chapter 47: Winding Mountain and Scale

4:50. Lin Chen opened his eyes. The darkness was thick. In the dormitory, the only sound was the even breathing of the boy in the lower bunk. He threw back the blanket. Cold air climbed over his skin. He dressed quickly. Quietly. Without making the slightest rustling sound. His feet touched the floor. Slid into the new rubber boots. The soles were thick. The cold was cut off. Stifling. But dry. He walked to the window. Pushed it open a crack. The snow in the courtyard had stopped. The wind was light. A slit had opened in the clouds, letting through a gray-white glow. The road was crusted over. Black ice. He drew his hand back. Shut the window. Checked the tops of the boots. The straps were tied tight. The cardboard inserts lay flat. The gauze over the crack in his skin was dry. The swollen, stuffy ache was still there. But he could walk.

He dragged the canvas bag out from under the bed. Packed in the ledger. Pencils. Stiff cardboard. Gloves. Pushed open the door. The corridor was empty. The emergency lights were dim yellow, their halos blurred at the edges. He kept close to the wall. Avoided the drafty gaps. His steps were steady. The rubber soles made a dull scraping sound on the terrazzo stairs. Good traction. But the shafts of the boots were stiff. They rubbed his ankles raw. He endured it. Did not stop to adjust them. Shifted his center of gravity forward. Planted every step solidly.

5:30. Academic building. Side entrance. The iron bolt was cold. He pushed the door open. The hallway was empty. Emergency lights glowed dully. He walked to the back door of Senior Year Class Seven. Pushed it open and went in. The desks and chairs were lined up neatly. On the blackboard was still last week’s countdown to the mock exam. The chalk characters had already blurred. He went to his seat. Sat down. Spread out his physics mistake notebook. The English Section C vocabulary list. The ledger. Pencil. Monday. Patch the gaps. No new material. Only reinforce the old. He turned to the electricity unit. 12V regulated power supply. Choosing measuring ranges. Needle deflection. Estimated reading. He closed his eyes and ran through the circuit diagram in his head. Power supply. Sliding rheostat. Ammeter. Voltmeter. Series. Parallel. Internal resistance. External resistance. He picked up the pencil and sketched the circuit from memory on a blank sheet. Without checking the book. Straight lines. Clear nodes. Accurate labels. When he finished, he checked it. No mistakes. He turned the page. Mechanics. Inclined plane. Friction. Force decomposition. He kept going. The pencil tip scratched softly. In the empty classroom, the sound was amplified. Like spring silkworms chewing leaves.

His fingers were frozen stiff. His joints rigid. He breathed warm air onto his hands. Kept going. Estimate five when it lands in the middle. Estimate seven when it leans to the right. The rules turned over and over in his head, and his hands followed the rhythm. Draw lines. Mark labels. Calculate. Check. Muscle memory covered over hesitation. At seven, morning study began. Recitation drifted in from the hallway. Uneven. Thick with sleepy nasal tones. Lin Chen made no sound. He spread open the English vocabulary list. Section C. The 35% to 55% range. He covered the Chinese. Looked at the English. Silently recited meanings. Spellings. Usage. When he hit an unfamiliar word, he did not skip it. He circled it in red pen. Wrote the pronunciation, the definition, and a sample sentence beside it. One page. Two pages. Three pages. The paper was rough. The edges frayed the fibers of his gloves and scraped his fingertips, leaving fine white marks. No blood. But a stinging pain. He did not stop. When he finished memorizing, he closed the booklet. Shut his eyes. Recited it back. The parts where he stumbled—he flipped back and memorized again. Retention rate. 82%. Up to standard.

Noon. Cafeteria. The clouds pressed even lower. The wind was hard. Lin Chen waited until the end, avoiding the crowd. He sat on a long bench and opened his oil-paper package. The rice was hard. The dish was cabbage stewed with glass noodles. Little oil. He broke it apart and swallowed it with cold broth. At least it put something in his stomach. The new rubber boots were stuffy around the soles of his feet. He was sweating. He shifted his weight, pressing more on the outer edges. He did not take them off. When he finished eating, he cleaned up after himself. Left no trace. Returned to the classroom. At noon break, he did not sleep. He opened the ledger. Pencil moving. Funds. 0.31. Hot-water bottle. Purchased. Rubber boots. Borrowed. Motion-sickness pills. Six tablets. Tuesday. 04:40. Take medicine. 05:00. Assemble. 05:30. Depart. Travel time. Two hours forty minutes. Old winding mountain road. Many curves. Steep slopes. Black ice. He calculated. Tractor. Diesel engine. Loud noise. Heavy vibration. Motion-sickness pills took twenty minutes to work. Taking them in advance was correct. But the truck bed had no cover. The wind would be brutal. The hot-water bottle would stay warm for about two hours. It would need to be refilled at the exam site. He had to bring a thermos. Or wrap the hot-water bottle in an old sweater to slow heat loss. He wrote: Wrap the hot-water bottle in an old sweater. Refill it at the boiler room at the exam site.

2:00 p.m. Break between classes. A boy in the front row turned around. “Lin Chen, you’re bringing that many books to No. 3 High School in the city?” Lin Chen looked up. “Mistake notebook. Vocabulary list. Enough.” The boy nodded. “I heard No. 3 High cut the winter camp slots again this year. The bonus problems are what really spread the scores. Last year they screened out half the candidates.” Lin Chen did not answer. The boy turned back around and kept flipping through his book. Lin Chen lowered his head and continued calculating in silence. Physics experiments. Error analysis. Systematic error. Random error. Ways to reduce them. Multiple measurements. Take the average. He did not need literary flair. He needed logic. Bonus problems. Open-ended explanation. He did not need to guess the questions. He needed a framework. Phenomenon. Variables. Model. Error. Conclusion. Five lines, drawn straight in his head. Not crossing. Not tangling.

3:40. The dismissal bell rang. Lin Chen packed his bag. Stood up. Went out. The corridor was cold. Wind poured up from the stairwell, carrying the smell of diesel. He walked to the school gate. The iron gate stood half open. The guardroom was lit. Old Li was on duty, a walkie-talkie in his hand. When he saw Lin Chen, he nodded. “Road’s slippery. Don’t be late tomorrow.” Lin Chen nodded. “Uncle Li, what time will the tractor get to the town entrance tomorrow?” Old Li checked his watch. “Seven. The old mountain road. The brake drums need to be checked ahead of time. Last run, they got too hot. Nearly failed.” Lin Chen stored that away. Brake drums. Overheating. Friction coefficient drops. Braking distance lengthens. Black ice road surface. Dangerous. He had to board early. Had to check. He asked, “Can it come ten minutes earlier?” Old Li shook his head. “Driver Zhao’s stubborn. Seven sharp. You go wait at the town entrance early. Don’t rush him.” Lin Chen nodded. “Thanks.”

He turned and went back to the dormitory. His steps were steady. The rubber soles pressed against the icy stairs. Center of gravity forward. Stride length, thirty centimeters. The anti-slip tread bit into the ice. Effective. He climbed back to the fourth floor and pushed open the door. No one was inside. The boy in the lower bunk had gone to the library. He sat on the edge of his bed. Took off his shoes. Untied the rubber boots. Poured out the cardboard inserts. The gauze on the soles of his feet was dry. The cracks were healing. The skin was slightly red. No infection. He picked up the mercurochrome and cotton swabs. Dipped one. Applied it. It stung. He held his breath. Spread it evenly. Rewrapped the gauze. Slow movements. Steady.

Evening. Seven o’clock. The dormitory lights were on. Lin Chen spread out all his materials. Physics. English. Math. Mistake notebook. Ledger. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Compass. Admission ticket. ID card. He checked them one by one. Packed them into the canvas bag. Layered them. Heavy items against his back. Lighter ones outside. Waterproof layer inside. Zipper pulled tight. He checked the hot-water bottle. The cap on the fill opening was screwed tight. No cracks in the rubber. The old sweater was wrapped around it and stuffed into the side pocket of the bag. He felt out the blister pack of motion-sickness tablets. The edges were sharp, pressing into his palm. He took it out and set it by the bed. Six white tablets. He closed his eyes and arranged the schedule in his mind. Tuesday. 04:40. Take medicine. 04:50. Wash up. 05:00. Assemble. 05:30. Depart. 07:00. Town entrance. 07:10. Board vehicle. Check brake drums. 09:40. Arrive at City No. 3 High School. 10:00. Exam starts. He calculated. The time window was tight. No slack. Margin for error. Zero. He had to lock every step into place.

Nine o’clock. Lights out. The dormitory went dark. Lin Chen did not sleep. He lay with his eyes open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. In his head, he reviewed everything. Rubber boots. Closed loop. Hot-water bottle. Closed loop. Bonus problems. Framework. Black ice. Mountain road. Brake drums. He sat up. Reached for the ledger. Opened it. Blank page. Pencil moving.

Day 27. 21:10. Patch-and-review complete. Supplies checked and packed. Progress: Physics electricity/mechanics modules sketched from memory with no errors. English Section C vocabulary retention rate 82% on recitation. Time spent: All day. Status: Up to standard. Gap: Funds 0.31. Tuesday lunch already covered. No surplus. New variable: Old Zhao’s tractor departs at 7:00 sharp. Risk of brake drum overheating. Braking distance extended on black ice sections. Countermeasure: Arrive at town entrance by 06:50 and wait. Test brake drum temperature with back of hand before boarding. If too hot, require driver to cool with water or reduce speed. Keep center of gravity low in the truck bed. Hold railing with both hands. Prevent slipping.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. His fingers tightened. The edges of the pages curled. He shoved it into the bottom of the bag and pressed it down. Heavy footsteps came from the hallway. Labored breathing. The teacher on night rounds. A flashlight beam swept past the crack under the door and stopped. “Don’t stay up too late on a Monday. You’re getting up early tomorrow. Snow’s heavy and the roads are slick.” The voice was low and echoing. “Got it,” Lin Chen answered. He rested his hands on his knees and slowly flexed them. The pain in the soles of his feet had gone numb. His body was drained. But he did not sleep. Outside the window, the clouds had broken apart, exposing a few stars. Cold. Bright. Wind slipped through the cracks with a low whistling sound.

He slipped a hand into the pocket inside his clothes and touched the admission ticket. Hard card stock. Slightly curled edges. In the photo, his expression was calm. Not smiling. He took it out and placed it by the bed. Beside it were the motion-sickness pills, the hot-water bottle, and the ledger. Four things, lined up in the dark. Not colliding. Not tangled. Each moving forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the windowpane. Frost flowers spread across the glass like a complicated circuit diagram. He closed his eyes. His breathing evened out. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was icy. Rough. Like an unpolished stone.

Tomorrow. Tuesday.

He turned over, facing the wall. His breathing slowed. Outside, the wind stopped. The snow turned fine, pattering softly against the glass. Everything was smoothed away. Nothing left but white. And cold.

Late at night. Eleven o’clock. The dormitory building had gone completely silent. Lin Chen still had not slept. Eyes open in the dark. In his head, he rehearsed. Boarding. Inspection. Mountain road. Black ice. Exam room. No heating. Bonus problems. Thirty minutes. He did not need a miracle. He only needed execution. He sat up. Reached for the ledger. Opened it. Blank page. Pencil moving. Tuesday. 04:40. Take medicine. 04:50. Wash face with cold water. 05:00. Assemble. He stopped. The pencil hovered in the air. City No. 3 High School. Old teaching building. Third floor. Examination room. He had to bring two 2B pencils. One eraser. One ruler. One bottle of water. The hot-water bottle. He calculated. Weight. Volume. Backpack load. Reasonable. He wrote: Bonus problems. Do not rush to answer. Do not leave blanks. Follow the framework and fill the page. Write neatly. No crossing out. The pencil paused. He set it down. Closed his eyes. The wind grew harsher. The frost flowers on the glass cracked a thin line through themselves, like a pointer indicating a mark on a scale.

From the far end of the corridor came the faint sound of a broadcast. Static. Then the voice of the weather announcer. “Tomorrow’s weather: clear turning cloudy. Black ice will persist on mountain roads. Drivers are advised to reduce speed and proceed with caution. Watch for slippery surfaces.”

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 faintly pale. He reached out, found the pencil, and drew an almost invisible line across the blank page.

Day 27. End. Progress: Contingency plan locked. Supplies in place. Timeline fixed. Status: Alive. New variable: Clear weather tomorrow. Sunlight may melt the top layer of black ice. It may refreeze in the afternoon. Road slickness will fluctuate in cycles. Countermeasure: Maintain distance while tractor is moving. Do not tailgate. Do not overtake. Adjust center of gravity slightly with the direction of each curve inside the truck bed. Let the anti-slip tread bite.

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

Tomorrow. Tuesday.

He turned over, facing the wall. His breathing gradually slowed. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull on the canvas bag. The metal was icy. Rough. Like an unpolished stone. He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. No words. Only three numbers. 04:40. 05:30. 09:40. Three lines crossing in the dark. Not colliding. Not tangling. Each moving forward on its own. Night dew condensed on the windowpane, forming a thin layer of frost.

Three in the morning. Lin Chen opened his eyes again. His body clock was exact. He sat up. Dressed. Every movement feather-light. His feet touched the floor. New rubber boots. Thick rubber soles. He went to the window and cracked it open. The sky was faintly bright. The clouds were thin. The ridgeline of the distant mountains stood clear. The road reflected a cold sheen. Black ice. He drew his hand back. Shut the window. Checked the canvas bag. Zipper. Fastened. Hot-water bottle. Side pocket. Motion-sickness pills. Inner pocket. Admission ticket. Inner sleeve. He swung the bag onto his back. The weight was even. Did not strain his shoulders. He pushed open the door. The corridor was empty. Emergency lights dim and yellow. He kept close to the wall. His steps were steady. The rubber soles made a dull scraping sound on the terrazzo stairs. Good anti-slip traction.

4:40. Town entrance. Beneath the old locust tree. The wind was hard. Grains of snow struck his face, faintly cold. Lin Chen stood behind the tree, sheltering from the wind. His eyes fixed on the direction of the highway. In the distance came the roar of a diesel engine. Low. Intermittent. Mixed with the rasp of metal grinding. The tractor. Old Zhao. Seven o’clock. But the sound was drawing near. He checked his watch. 4:45. Twenty-five minutes early. He walked to the roadside. Headlights stabbed through the morning mist. Two dim yellow beams swept across the frozen road surface. The tires rolled over black ice with a fine crunching sound. The vehicle stopped. Old Zhao leaned out, collar of his army coat turned up, a cigarette in his mouth. “You’re early.” Lin Chen nodded. “Uncle Zhao. Let me check the brake drums.” Old Zhao frowned. “Haven’t even warmed it up yet. What’s there to check?” Lin Chen said nothing. He walked to the back of the truck bed. Pressed the back of his hand near the brake drum on the left rear wheel. The metal surface was cold. No overheating. He nodded. “Normal.” Old Zhao exhaled a plume of white breath. “Get on. Sit tight. Winding mountain road. Black ice. No rushing.” Lin Chen nodded. Climbed into the rear bed. Hugged the canvas bag against his chest. The hot-water bottle pressed to his chest. Center of gravity low. Both hands gripping the rail of the truck bed. The rubber gloves rubbed against the iron bar with the faintest rustling sound.

The engine roared. The vehicle vibrated. The tires bit into the ice and started forward slowly. Lin Chen closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. No words. Only three lines. One was the rule for estimated readings: estimate five in the middle, estimate seven when it leans right. One was the frozen road surface: rubber tread, center of gravity forward, do not step on the edges. One was the framework for bonus problems: phenomenon. Variables. Model. Error. Conclusion. Three lines crossing in the dark. Not colliding. Not tangling. Each moving forward on its own.

The wheels rolled over black ice. The body of the vehicle swayed slightly. Lin Chen’s fingers tightened. The railing was icy. Rough. Like an unpolished stone. He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the winding mountain road ahead. Curves. Steep grade. Black ice. Reflecting a cold light.

The vehicle kept moving forward.