Chapter 50: Unsealing and the Gap

Wednesday. 18:40. Dormitory.

Door pushed open. Locked behind him. Canvas bag set on the bed. Movements light. Not enough to shake loose any dust.

He took out the kraft-paper envelope. Yellowed edges. Deep creases. Blurred postmark. December 18, 1992. Qingshi Village.

Opened it. Fingernail slid along the flap. Without tearing it. The paper was brittle. It gave off the faintest ripping sound.

The contents slipped out. Onto the bedsheet. A stack of loose bills. Coins. A folded sheet of letter paper. A small packet of dried tangerine peel wrapped in old newspaper.

Spread out. Counted.

Ten-yuan notes. Two. Five-yuan notes. Three. One-yuan notes. Four. Fifty-cent coins. Six. Ten-cent coins. Twelve. Five-cent coins. Four. Two-cent coins. Three. One-cent coins. Two.

Total. Thirty-five yuan and twenty cents.

The letter unfolded. Crooked handwriting. Written in pencil. Rough paper. You could see the drag and pauses where force had gone into each stroke.

“Chen. We sold twelve jin of eggs at home. Borrowed another five yuan. Don’t skimp on food. Change the medicine on your foot on time. Guiying.”

No date signed at the end. Only the postmark. The ink had bled. The edges were blurred.

He stared at that line. Three seconds. Without blinking.

His fingers rubbed the page. The pencil marks were rough. His fingertips could feel the rise and fall of every stroke. His mother did not hold a pen properly. But every line was heavy. Like a hoe hacking into frozen earth.

He picked up the dried tangerine peel. The old newspaper was cool. He peeled it open. The smell was dry and astringent, carrying the smoky scent of an old stove and the faint bitterness of citrus.

He tucked it into the side pocket of the canvas bag. Close to the body. Kept dry. Spare.

He opened the ledger. Pencil moved. The tip rasped across the paper. A dry scratching sound. Magnified in the quiet dorm room.

Day 29. 18:50. Opened envelope. Funds: 1.11 + 35.20 = 36.31 yuan. Gap: 50 - 36.31 = 13.69 yuan. Route: Thursday morning. Scrap station. Clear inventory. Estimated return: 15 yuan. Risk: slippery roads after snow. Boss cuts price. Cash shortage. Contingency: haul in batches. No bargaining. Cash settlement only. Accept losses.

The pencil tip paused. The ledger closed. Fingers tightened. The page edges curled. He slid it to the bottom of the bag and pinned it down.

He sorted the loose bills by denomination. Tens stacked together. Fives folded in half. Ones laid flat. Bound them with a rubber band. Tucked them into the pocket against his body. The coins were divided into two small cloth pouches. No clinking. No sound. Weight evenly distributed.

He lay down. Closed his eyes. Breathing steady. Chest rising and falling. Fixed rhythm.

Outside the window. The wind gradually weakened. The snow had stopped. Clouds scattered, exposing a dark blue sky. Moonlight fell on the snowpack, reflecting a cold glow. The mountain ridge in the distance was sharp and clear. Like it had been cut with a blade.

Thursday. 05:30.

Eyes open. No alarm clock. Body clock.

Dressed. Washed up. Cold water. Piercing. Scrubbed his face. The towel was coarse. It scraped the skin, leaving red marks. No pain. Awake.

Checked the rubber boots. Sole pattern. No wear. Tested balance. Stable. The gauze under his foot was dry. Scab along the edges of the crack. No seepage. Red antiseptic. Cotton swabs. Spare.

He slung the canvas bag over his shoulder and went out. The corridor was cold. Wind poured up from the stairwell, carrying the smell of chalk dust and old wood.

Downstairs. Stride length thirty centimeters. Never stepped on the edge. Effective against slipping. The rubber soles bit into the terrazzo floor, giving off fine crunching squeaks.

06:10. At the town entrance. Scrap station. Iron gate half shut.

Old Sun, the boss, was wrapped in a military coat, sitting beside a coal stove. An abacus in his hand. The stove glowed dull red. White vapor rose from the flue.

“Lin boy. So early.”

“Clearing inventory. Settling accounts.”

Old Sun raised an eyebrow and set down the abacus. “Road’s slick after the snow. Waste paper price dropped two fen. Nobody wants coal cinders. I’m cutting the rate.”

Lin Chen did not argue. He set down the sacks. Undid the rope knots.

Waste paper. Neatly arranged. No mud or water. Clearly sorted. Textbooks. Exercise books. Draft paper. Stacked separately.

Coal cinders. Dried. Even grain. Bagged. No impurities.

Old Sun got up. Flicked the abacus. Fingers flew. Beads collided. Crisp.

“Waste paper. Eight yuan four. Coal cinders. Three yuan two. Old rubber shoes. Two yuan. Total. Thirteen yuan six.”

Lin Chen nodded. “Cash.”

Old Sun felt around in the drawer for change. Counted out thirteen one-yuan notes and six one-jiao notes and handed them over. The edges of the bills were curled. They smelled of coal smoke.

Lin Chen took them. Counted them. Correct. Tucked them into the pocket against his body, separate from the money he already had. No mixing.

Turned. Left. Stride length thirty centimeters. Never stepped on the edge.

07:00. Dormitory.

He opened the ledger. Pencil moving again.

Day 30. 07:05. Cleared inventory. Funds: 36.31 + 13.60 = 49.91 yuan. Gap: 0.09 yuan. Error: nine fen. Countermeasure: cafeteria. Buy the cheapest steamed bun. Make change. Fill the difference.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger.

Stood up. Went to the cafeteria. Empty corridor. Footsteps echoing. Cold.

07:30. Cafeteria. Service window. Glass partition. Heavy fog on the panes.

“One steamed bun.”

The server handed it over. Wrapped in oiled paper. Steam leaking faintly out.

Lin Chen handed over five jiao. The server gave change. One jiao. One fen. The coin was icy cold. Its edge chipped.

He took it. The one-fen coin. Set it in his palm. Weighed it. Light. But heavy.

Funds. 49.91 + 0.09 = 50.00 yuan.

Gap. Cleared to zero.

He bit into the bun. Dry. Hard. Chewed it to pieces. Swallowed. His stomach had something in it now. Not bloated. Warmth slid down his throat and drove off the cold.

08:00. Back to the dormitory. Packed his things.

Canvas bag. Layered.

Top layer. Textbooks. Notebook. Pencil. Eraser. Ruler. Compass.

Middle layer. The fifty-yuan deposit. Packed in a new envelope. Sealed. Labeled. Group A. Lin Chen.

Bottom layer. Change of clothes. Red antiseptic. Cotton swabs. Gauze. Dried tangerine peel.

Zipper pulled shut. Canvas bag snug against his back. Weight evenly distributed. No pressure on the shoulders. Center of gravity centered.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Closed his eyes. Ran through it in advance.

10:00. Bulletin board. Check the list.

10:15. Finance office. Pay deposit. Collect receipt.

10:30. Assembly. Receive textbooks.

The procedure was clear. No redundancy. Room for error. Low. Time window. Tight.

He opened his eyes. Looked at the watch. 08:45.

He got up and went out.

Corridor. Sparse footsteps. Someone coughing. Someone turning pages.

He kept to the main path, avoiding the crowd. Old classroom building. Red brick. Peeling wall paint exposing the gray-white layer beneath.

He stopped in front of the bulletin board. Inside the glass case. White paper. Black print. Already posted. The paste had not dried yet. The edges curled slightly.

No crowd yet. Only a few early arrivals. White breath puffing out. Hands rubbed together. Feet stamping.

He stood on the lee side, both hands in his pockets, thumb rubbing the calluses on his fingertips. Not anxious. Not impatient. Waited.

10:00. The bell. Short. Shrill. Cutting through the cold wind.

A teacher from the academic affairs office pushed the door open and came out. Paste brush in hand. A new list. Posted it beside the old one. Paper against paper. A crisp sound.

The crowd surged. Footsteps. Scuffing. Low conversation. Quickened breathing.

Lin Chen did not push in. He stood at the outer edge. His gaze swept over it. No craning his neck. No standing on tiptoe. Straight ahead.

The list was sorted by stroke count of surnames.

He searched. Third column. Line forty-seven. Lin Chen. Final selection. Passed. Training camp. Group A.

He stared at that line. Three seconds. No smile. No sigh. His shoulders dropped half a centimeter. Breath steady. White mist leaving his mouth.

He stepped forward. Copied down the information. Exam number. Group. Reporting time. Finance office location.

His handwriting was neat. Pressure even. No tremor. Ink dried slowly in the cold air. He waited three seconds before capping the pen.

Finished copying. Stepped back. Turned. Left.

10:10. Administration building. First floor. Finance office.

Door open. Heat hit his face, carrying the smell of old newspapers, ink, and dust. The sudden rise in temperature stung his nasal passages. But kept him alert.

At the window. Glass partition. Small opening. Its edges lined with worn sheet metal.

Lin Chen slid in the envelope. Fifty yuan.

Inside, fingers counted. Paper rubbing. Dry, soft sounds. Coins clinking. Clear.

“Lin Chen. Group A. Deposit, fifty. Receipt.”

A stiff card slipped out through the opening. Stamped in red. Finance Office of Municipal No. 3 High School. The stamp pad ink stood slightly raised.

Lin Chen took it. Checked it. Amount. Date. Name. Correct.

He tucked it into the pocket against his body, close to his chest. Heat transferred through it. The paper warmed slightly, in sync with his heartbeat.

“Thank you.”

He turned and went out. Cold wind poured in. The temperature difference was sharp. Gooseflesh rose on his skin. But his breathing stayed steady.

10:25. Athletic field. Assembly point.

The crowd had already gathered. About forty people. Dressed in all kinds of clothes. Wool overcoats. Down jackets. Old padded coats. Rubber boots. Leather shoes. Cloth shoes.

Lin Chen stood at the edge. Canvas bag by his feet. Back straight. Hands resting on his knees. Eyes level.

No whispering. No looking others over. Just waiting. Breathing in time with the wind.

10:30. Whistle. Sharp. Splitting the air.

The supervising teacher, Old Li, stood on the steps. Roster in hand. Loudspeaker too. Old batteries. The sound crackled, but it carried.

“Group A. Roll call.”

One name after another. Called out. Answered. Voices high and low. Some hesitant. Some loud.

“Lin Chen.”

“Here.”

His voice was steady. Not loud. But clear. It cut through the static.

Old Li looked up. His gaze swept over him. Nodded. Ticked the name on the roster. Pen tip scratching the paper. Rustling softly.

“The winter training camp officially begins today. Three rules. One: late three times, dismissed. Two: fail to hand in homework, dismissed. Three: deposit unpaid, dismissed. No exceptions.”

Pause. His gaze swept across the field. Eyes cold. Not harsh. But leaving no room.

“Textbooks have been distributed. Two o’clock this afternoon. Physics lab. First practical session. Bring all tools. Bring your own scratch paper. Anyone late will stand outside the door as punishment. No makeup assessment.”

A low stir went through the crowd. Some sighed. Some rummaged through their bags. Some muttered complaints about the tight schedule.

Lin Chen did not move. He bent down, unzipped the canvas bag, and took out the newly issued textbook. Thick. Hard cover. Printed with Advanced High School Physics Competition. Rough paper. Heavy ink smell.

He opened it. Table of contents. Mechanics. Electromagnetism. Optics. Thermodynamics. Dense page numbers. Formulas everywhere.

He closed it. Slid it into the inner layer of the bag. Pulled the zipper shut. The canvas bag pressed against his back. Heavier now. But the center of gravity stayed steady.

Old Li continued. “Dismissed. See you in the lab at two. Don’t be late.”

The crowd dispersed. Footsteps. Voices. Fading away. Chaotic footprints remained in the snow. Soon covered by fresh snowfall.

Lin Chen slung the bag over his shoulder. Turned. Walked along the main path. Stride length thirty centimeters. Never stepped on the edge.

Wind threaded through the gaps, letting out a low whistle. The mountain ridge in the distance was sharp and clear. The clouds were thin. Sunlight shone on the snow and reflected a cold glare.

He closed his eyes. No formulas in his mind. No vocabulary words. Only three lines. One was the rule for estimating readings: if it falls in the middle, estimate five; if it leans right, estimate seven. One was the icy road surface: rubber tread, center of gravity shifted forward, never step on the edge. One was the training camp rules: late three times, dismissed. No homework turned in, dismissed. Deposit unpaid, dismissed.

Three lines. Crossing in darkness. Not colliding. Not tangling. Each moving forward on its own.

He opened his eyes. His gaze settled on the direction of the laboratory building ahead. Red brick. Three stories. Window glass reflecting light. A thin layer of frost on the panes.

He did not need to guess the difficulty. He only needed to prepare the tools. Ruler. Compass. Calculator. Spare batteries. Scratch paper. Three pads. Refill leads. Five.

He pulled the receipt from the pocket against his body. The edge was sharp, biting into his palm. He took it out and laid it in his hand. Stiff paper. Red stamp. Fifty yuan. Paid. The gap reduced to zero. But the road had only just begun.

He closed his eyes. Breathing steady. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the zipper pull of the canvas bag. The metal was cold. Rough. Like an unpolished stone.

Afternoon. Two o’clock. Practical session.

The wind tightened. The mountain shadows in the distance darkened. The clouds pressed lower. It was going to snow again. He turned and kept walking. Stride length thirty centimeters. Never stepped on the edge. The anti-slip tread bit into the ice with fine crunching squeaks. Effective.

The door of the laboratory building stood ajar. From inside came the faint clink of metal, and low-voiced discussion. The smell of rosin, machine oil, and old rubber mixed together. Cold. But familiar.

He stopped. His gaze fell on the cold light spilling through the crack in the door.

Two in the afternoon. First practical session. Not theory. Hands-on.

He pushed the door open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of rosin and machine oil. It stung his nose slightly. But kept him alert.

Long tables. Covered with equipment. Oscilloscopes. Multimeters. Resistance boxes. Wires. Disorderly. No labels. Deep scratches on the tabletop exposing the wood grain.

Old Li stood behind the lectern. A stopwatch in hand. Metal casing. Worn. Glass dial. Hands still. His gaze swept over the whole room.

“Timing starts now. Assemble a voltage-regulator circuit. Output voltage 5V. Error margin plus or minus 0.1. Time limit forty minutes. Go over time, zero points. Damage any equipment, compensate at full price.”

The room fell silent at once. Only the sounds of equipment being rummaged through. And hurried breathing. Some hands trembled. Some opened the wrong drawers. Some cursed under their breath.

Lin Chen opened the canvas bag. Took out his tools. Spread them out. Lined them up in order. No panic. No scrambling. No bumping into anyone else.

He picked up the multimeter. Model J0407. Yellowed casing. Moderate resistance in the dial. Probe wires intact. Switched it to the DC voltage setting. Touched the probes together. The display lit up. Numbers jumped. Returned to zero.

He closed his eyes. No formulas in his head. Only the circuit diagram. Power supply. Current limiting. Voltage division. Load. Feedback. Nodes. Loop. Ground.

He opened his eyes. His fingers came down. Steady. No tremor.

Stopwatch. Tick. Tick.

Countdown. Thirty-nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds.