Chapter 55: Marks and Echoes

06:15. Dormitory. The iron bedframe was cold. Lin Chen opened his eyes. His breath condensed into white mist in the air. He did not move. He listened. At the far end of the corridor, the night patrol teacher’s footsteps receded. A faucet dripped. Tick. Tock. Three-second intervals. Regular.

He threw back the blanket. Got up. His feet touched the floor. A dull pain came from the scab on his left foot. His weight shifted naturally to the right. Stride: thirty centimeters. No dragging. No limp.

Washroom. Cold water. Piercing. He splashed his face. The towel was rough. It scraped across his cheekbones. His skin reddened. Awake.

Back in the room, he spread open the ledger. Pencil moving.

Day 33. 06:25.

Funds: 1.19 yuan.

Goal: Secure the recommendation before 09:00. Gather the 20-yuan group-order deposit before 12:00.

Route: Speak with teachers. Group A group order. Cafeteria work hours. Cash in scrap.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the book. Slid it into his canvas bag. Pulled the zipper shut. Weight evenly balanced.

06:50. Athletic field. Heavy frost. The grass blades were white. Step on them, and they gave off fine cracking sounds. The air was hard with cold. When he drew it into his nose, it hurt faintly.

The students of Group A had already gathered. Low voices. Eyes meeting. Complicated. Some rubbed their hands. Some stamped their feet. Some kept their heads down, looking at the tips of their shoes.

07:00. Old Li arrived. Army coat. Collar turned up. A folder in his hand. The edges of the papers inside were curled.

“Fall in. Roll call.”

His voice was flat. No rise or fall. Names called. Responses. Short.

“The winter camp overall evaluation. Technical practical work counts for sixty percent. The theoretical written exam counts for thirty percent. Family background and overall character count for ten percent. The technical scores are out. Lin Chen. First in practical work. Second in written exam. Overall rank pending. Recommendation not submitted. Temporarily on the waiting list.”

A ripple ran through the crowd. Some relaxed. Some clenched their fists. Some turned to look at Lin Chen. He neither avoided nor returned their gaze. He stood there, weight on his right foot, left foot lifted half an inch off the ground, not pressing the injury.

“The recommendation is to be submitted by each school’s supervising teacher. Weight: ten percent. Deadline today, 09:00. Miss it, and you automatically forfeit qualification for the overall evaluation.” Old Li closed the folder. “Dismissed. Make your own preparations. 08:30. Assemble in the lab. Provincial competition outline will be distributed.”

Footsteps scattered. White mist drifted.

Lin Chen turned and walked away. Stride: thirty centimeters. Not stepping on the frost lines.

07:20. Teachers’ office building. Third floor. Empty corridor. Paint peeling from the walls, exposing gray plaster underneath. The smell was old newspapers and chalk dust.

Homeroom teacher’s office. The door was ajar. Lin Chen knocked. Three times. Even intervals.

“Come in.”

He pushed the door open. The homeroom teacher sat behind the desk, wearing reading glasses, holding a red pen, grading papers. Exercise books were stacked on the desk, their edges yellowing.

“Teacher.” Lin Chen stopped. He did not go closer. Did not step back. Distance: one and a half meters.

The teacher looked up, took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Lin Chen. I’ve seen your winter camp results. First in practical work. Second in written exam. Your technical score is solid.”

“The recommendation must be submitted before 09:00 today.”

The homeroom teacher fell silent. His fingers tapped slowly against the desktop. “The Municipal Education Committee has its rules. Ten percent. They look at family background. They look at overall character. Your family. Qingshi Village. Poor peasant household. On the forms, it says ‘hardship.’ That column is not easy to fill.”

Lin Chen did not argue. He took documents from his canvas bag: the winter camp score sheet, the blind soldering practical evaluation form, the test record for his homemade soldering iron, the preview notes for the provincial competition outline. Four sheets of paper. Flat. Uncreased. He set them at the corner of the desk.

“The technical score is already locked in. Practical pass rate: ninety-eight percent. Error: zero point zero one volts. Homemade tool passed the thirty-minute timed test. I’ve already previewed the provincial competition outline up to the chapter on electromagnetic induction. Notes included. Full derivations attached.”

His voice was low. Flat. No rise or fall. No pleading. No explanation. Just statement.

The homeroom teacher picked up the score sheet. His eyes swept over it. Paused. Turned to the blind soldering evaluation form. Under a magnifying glass, the photos of the solder joints were neat in their rows, the tin giving off a faint shine.

“You understand the rules.” The teacher set the papers down. “The school’s quota is limited. If we recommend you and you withdraw halfway, or your performance drops sharply, the school bears responsibility. You’ll need to sign a pledge. Full participation in provincial competition training. No leave. No absences. Maintain a top-twenty ranking. If you break the agreement, your direct-recommendation qualification will be canceled, and the training subsidy will be reclaimed.”

“I’ll sign.”

The homeroom teacher opened a drawer. Took out stationery. A fountain pen. Ink. Blue-black.

Lin Chen took them. The pen hovered over the page. Steady. He wrote his name. The date. Pressed the page with his fingertips until the ink dried.

The homeroom teacher collected the paper. Stamped it. Red seal. Clear.

“Get it to Old Li before 09:00. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you, Teacher.”

He turned. Left. Closed the door. Gently.

08:00. Laboratory corridor. The students of Group A were gathered in front of the bulletin board, discussing in low voices.

“Municipal Electronics Equipment Company. Wholesale price. Oscilloscope, multimeter, basic components. Eighty yuan a set. If five people place a joint order, it comes down to sixty-five. But it needs a twenty-yuan deposit. Due before noon. Miss the deadline and the slot passes to the next person.”

“Who’s organizing it?”

“No organizer. Everyone has to scrape together their own share. If they can’t, it falls apart.”

Lin Chen walked over. His eyes swept across the notice. Numbers. Conditions. Deadline. Clear.

He spoke. “I’ll organize it. Deposit: twenty. I’ll pay it by noon. Joint order. Five people. Price difference split according to each person’s contribution. I’ll handle logistics. I’ll handle inspection on delivery. If the equipment is substandard, full deposit refunded. Responsibility falls on me.”

The crowd went still. All eyes focused on him. Measuring him.

A boy in the front row, Chen Hao. Well-off family. But practical. “What are you backing that with? The deposit is twenty. You’ve got one yuan and nineteen cents to your name. What are you paying with?”

“By noon, I’ll have it.” Lin Chen did not avoid his gaze. “We sign an agreement. Put fingerprints on it. If I default, the deposit is forfeit, the equipment goes to you, and I withdraw from the provincial competition. I won’t take up a slot.”

Chen Hao held his gaze. Three seconds. Then nodded. “Fine. I’ll draft the agreement. Sign at eleven. You pay the deposit at twelve. If you’re late, we won’t wait.”

“Deal.”

He turned and left. Stride: thirty centimeters. Not stepping in the puddles.

08:30. Behind the cafeteria kitchen. The iron door was half open. Steam. The thick smell of cooking oil.

The server, Old Zhou, wore an apron and held a skimmer. The water in the pot was boiling, white vapor roiling up.

“Back again, kid?”

“Washing dishes. Two hours. Cash in exchange. Five yuan. Paid on the spot.”

Old Zhou raised an eyebrow. “Rules are rules. Wash dishes, get meal tickets. No cash.”

“Cash. Five yuan. Or meal tickets, plus two hours’ work, and I come again tomorrow.”

Old Zhou sighed and set down the skimmer. “Fine. Sink in the back. Heavy grease. Cold water. Your hands crack, that’s on you. Five yuan. Finish the work, paid on the spot.”

“Deal.”

He turned and went in. The cold air gave way to heat. His nose stung faintly. But he was awake.

Three stainless-steel sinks. Rust around the edges. Grease floating on the water, yellow and slick. The smell was sharp.

He rolled up his sleeves, exposing pale forearms, blue veins faintly raised. He reached in. The water was cold. Piercing. Grease clung to his skin, slippery.

His movements were steady. Not rushed. Not interfering with anyone else. Sponge. Detergent. Scrub. Dense white foam. Rinse. Fast stream of water washing the grease away. Drain. Stack. Neatly.

Time passed. There was only the sound of water, dishes knocking together, and low, controlled breathing. Someone coughed. Someone flipped through a book.

Lin Chen did not look up. His fingers stayed steady. Sort. Wash. Drain. Stack. Record. Quantity. Type. Position.

Two hours. 10:30.

Old Zhou came over. Checked the list. No mistakes. Nodded.

“Five yuan. Paid on the spot.”

Lin Chen took it. Five one-yuan bills. Worn at the edges. But flat.

Funds. 1.19 + 5.00 = 6.19 yuan.

Shortfall. 20 - 6.19 = 13.81 yuan.

He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. Only circuit diagrams. Temperature. Time. Molten solder. Solidification. Three lines crossing in the dark, not colliding, not tangling, each moving forward on its own path.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the corner of the back kitchen: an old sheet-metal crate. Inside were discarded radios. Rusted casings. Loose parts.

He walked over, crouched down, searched through them, and pulled out three units. Casings damaged. But the main boards were intact. Capacitors. Resistors. Coils. They could be stripped. They could be repaired.

“I’m buying. Three units. Two yuan.”

Old Zhou marked it down. “Two yuan. Change back: three yuan eighty-one.”

Lin Chen took the radios and the coins. Weighed them in his hand. Light. But heavy.

Funds. 6.19 - 2.00 = 4.19 yuan.

He turned and left. Stride: thirty centimeters. Not stepping in the puddles.

Back to the dorm. He pushed the door open. Locked it behind him. Set the canvas bag on the bed. Movements light.

He spread out his workspace. Old newspapers on the floor. He sorted by type: capacitors, resistors, diodes. His hands were steady. No shaking. Not touching anyone else’s things.

Time passed. There was only the faint clicking of components and the low sound of controlled breathing.

Three units. Main boards. Cold solder joints. Leaking capacitors. Broken coil circuits. He disassembled. Soldered. Replaced. Tested. Skilled movements. No panic. No rush.

11:10. Three radios repaired. Powered on. Tuned. Static, then clarity. No noise.

He stood up and went to the teaching building. The corridor was empty. His footsteps echoed. Cold.

11:20. Senior Year Two classroom. At the door. Students gathered there, talking quietly.

“Old radios. Repaired. They work. Five yuan each. Three-day guarantee. No repairs, no returns, no exchanges.”

The crowd went still. Eyes on him. Assessing.

A boy in the front row nodded. “One unit. Five yuan. Cash.”

Lin Chen handed over the radio. Took the money. The bill was flat.

Second. Third. Sold.

Funds. 4.19 + 15.00 = 19.19 yuan.

Shortfall. 20 - 19.19 = 0.81 yuan.

He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. Only circuit diagrams. Temperature. Time. Molten solder. Solidification. Three lines crossing in the dark, not colliding, not tangling, each moving forward on its own path.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell under the bed: an old tin box. Inside were a half-length of copper wire and three resistors.

He took them out. Weighed them in his hand. Light. But heavy.

“Selling scrap copper. Resistors. Need small change.”

Old Zhou happened to pass by. He took them, weighed them, and watched the scale settle.

“Copper wire. One liang. Twelve fen. Three resistors. Fifteen fen. Total: twenty-seven fen. I’ll give you eight fen in change.”

Lin Chen took the coins. Weighed them in his palm. Light. But heavy.

Funds. 19.19 + 0.27 + 0.08 = 19.54 yuan.

Shortfall. 20 - 19.54 = 0.46 yuan.

He closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his head. Only circuit diagrams. Temperature. Time. Molten solder. Solidification. Three lines crossing in the dark, not colliding, not tangling, each moving forward on its own path.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the side pocket of his canvas bag. Dried tangerine peel. Old newspaper. He reached into his inner pocket. Receipt. Red stamp. Fifty yuan. Already paid. But the road ahead was still uneven. Ranking. Quota. Eighty-yuan shortfall. Recommendation. He had to calculate. Time. He had to squeeze it out.

He stood and went to the washroom. Cold water. Piercing. He scrubbed his face. The rough towel scraped his skin, leaving red marks. It did not hurt. He was awake. Back in the room, he spread out a fresh sheet of graph paper. Pencil. Ruler. Drew the axes. Marked the scales. No retracing. No shading. The lines were straight. Even. He closed his eyes. There were no curves in his mind. Only solder joints. Temperature. Time. Molten solder. Solidification. Three lines crossing in the dark, not colliding, not tangling, each moving forward on its own path.

He opened his eyes. His gaze settled on the page. The first stroke came down. Steady. No tremor.

Coordinate axes. Horizontal axis: time. Vertical axis: money. Origin. Zero point. Scale marks. Every square: ten yuan. One day. He calculated. Current: 19.54. Target: 20. Shortfall: 0.46. Linear. Positive slope. He drew the line. Unbroken. Unbent. Graphite dust fell on the paper. He erased it lightly, leaving no trace.

The sole of his foot hurt. He shifted posture, moving his weight to his right leg, left leg suspended, not pressing the injury. His fingers were stiff with cold. He breathed into them. White mist scattered. He kept drawing.

Outside the window, the wind stopped. The snow grains became finer, tapping lightly against the glass. Everything was smoothed flat. Only white remained. And cold.

11:50. Laboratory. Old Li stood behind the lectern, folder in hand.

“Group-order agreement. Sign. Pay deposit.”

Lin Chen stepped forward. Handed over the agreement. The bills. Twenty yuan. Flat.

Old Li checked them. No mistakes. Stamped them. Red seal. Clear.

“Deposit received. Equipment arrives at the school in three days. Inspection on delivery. If it passes, pay the balance. If not, refund. Responsibility falls on you.”

“Understood.”

He turned and left. Stride: thirty centimeters. Not stepping on the frost lines.

12:30. Back to the dorm. He pushed the door open. Locked it. Set the canvas bag on the bed. Movements light.

He opened the ledger. Pencil moving.

Day 33. 12:45. Group-order deposit paid.

Recommendation submitted.

Funds: 0.00. Shortfall: 60 yuan.

Next step: Provincial competition outline. Preview. Equipment inspection. Prepare the final payment.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger.

He stood and went to the washroom. Cold water. Piercing. He scrubbed his face. The towel was rough, rubbing his skin and leaving red marks. It did not hurt. He was awake.

Back in the room, he sat down. Closed his eyes. There were no formulas in his mind. Only ranking. Quota. Resources. Three lines crossing in the dark, not colliding, not tangling, each moving forward on its own path.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the windowsill. A letter. Someone had slipped it through the crack in the door at some unknown time. The envelope was yellowed, edges creased. Postmark: Qingshi Village. Date: yesterday.

He walked over, picked it up, unfolded it. The paper was rough. The handwriting crooked. His mother’s hand.

Chen-wa.

Everything at home is fine. Your father’s back injury has eased. He can work in the fields again. Xiaoman had an episode last night. Not a bad one. The medicine is almost gone. The town clinic said it needs to be changed. Expensive. Thirty yuan.

You just study in peace. Don’t skimp on meal money.

—Mother

His fingers tightened. The edges of the paper curled.

Thirty yuan. Medicine. New prescription.

He closed his eyes. There was no complaint in his mind. Only arithmetic. The shortfall. Routes. Countermeasures.

He opened his eyes. His gaze fell under the bed. The old tin box. Inside were parts traded from the scrap station, and that half-length of copper wire.

He pulled out an old notebook. Blank page. Pencil moving.

Funding gap: 60 + 30 = 90 yuan.

Countermeasures:

1. Provincial competition training subsidy. Request advance payment. Requires mentor’s signature.

2. Cafeteria. Wash dishes on others’ behalf. Exchange for cash.

3. Group A classmates. Joint purchases. Bargain down the price.

4. Recommendation. Homeroom teacher. Old Li. Need to talk.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the notebook. His fingers tightened, curling the page edges. He stuffed it into the bottom of his bag and pressed it down.

Outside the window, the sky darkened. Clouds hung low. No snow yet. Wind passed through the cracks with a low whistling sound.

From the loudspeaker came electric static. Buzzing. Old Li’s voice, distorted with noise, cutting through the walls.

“Tomorrow. 08:00. Assemble in the laboratory. Provincial competition outline to be distributed. Anyone without textbooks will be treated as having voluntarily withdrawn.”

The current cut off. The dorm went quiet.

Lin Chen opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the side pocket of the canvas bag. Dried tangerine peel. Old newspaper. He reached into his inner pocket. Receipt. Red stamp. Fifty yuan. Already paid. But the road ahead was still uneven. Ranking. Quota. Eighty-yuan shortfall. Recommendation. He had to calculate. Time. He had to squeeze it out.

He stood and went to the washroom. Cold water. Piercing. He scrubbed his face. The rough towel rubbed his skin, leaving red marks. It did not hurt. He was awake. Back in the room, he spread out a new sheet of graph paper. Pencil. Ruler. Drew the axes. Marked the scale. No retracing. No shading. Straight, even lines. He closed his eyes. There were no curves in his mind. Only solder joints. Temperature. Time. Molten solder. Solidification. Three lines crossing in the dark, not colliding, not tangling, each moving forward on its own path.

He opened his eyes. His gaze settled on the page. The first stroke came down. Steady. No tremor.

Coordinate axes. Horizontal axis: time. Vertical axis: money. Origin. Zero point. Scale marks. Every square: ten yuan. One day. He calculated. Current: 0.00. Target: 90. Shortfall: 90. Linear. Positive slope. He drew the line. Unbroken. Unbent. Pencil dust fell on the paper. He erased it lightly, leaving no trace.

The sole of his foot hurt. He changed posture, shifting his weight to his right leg, left leg suspended, not pressing the wound. His fingers were stiff with cold. He breathed on them. White mist scattered. He kept drawing.

Outside the window, the wind stopped. Snow grains grew finer, tapping the glass with soft pattering sounds. Everything was smoothed flat. Nothing remained but white. And cold.

Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Provincial competition outline.

He closed his eyes. Slept. But his hands were moving. His fingertips traced circuit diagrams unconsciously across the bedsheet. Power source. Current limiting. Load. Feedback. Nodes. Loop. Ground. The lines were straight. Even. No shake.

Tick. Tock.