Chapter 76: Closed Exams and Bandages

The wind in the corridor passed through the window frame, carrying the chill of early autumn. Lin Chen locked the door. Twenty-five-centimeter strides. When his left foot touched down, the cardboard insole rubbed against the wound and sent up a dull ache. He did not stop. He went down the stairs, the edges of the cement steps glowing gray-white in the morning light. Seven forty. Twenty minutes remained before the exam.

The door of Room 204 in Teaching Building Three stood open. More than half the seats were already filled. He chose the second row from the back by the window and sat down. The canvas bag rested at his feet. The proctor handed out the exam papers. The rustle of pages was light. He opened the paper. Question one: calculation of the temperature drift coefficient of an RF attenuator. Question two: design of an impedance-matching network. Question three: calibration steps for the noise floor of a spectrum analyzer. Every question fell within the range covered by his notebook of wrong answers. He unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen. The nib touched the page. No hesitation. Formula derivation, parameter substitution, verification. His left hand held down the edge of the paper, his right hand wrote. Beneath the desk, his left foot shifted slightly to avoid bearing weight. The pain was kept at the surface of consciousness. In his mind there were only numbers and chains of logic.

The exam room was very quiet. Only the scratch of pen tips on paper, and now and then the crisp sound of draft sheets being turned. The proctor paced the aisles. Leather soles struck the terrazzo floor in an even rhythm. Lin Chen slowed his breathing to match it. The second problem required calculating the impedance point on a Smith chart. He closed his eyes and drew the chart in his head. The center was fifty ohms. The load point fell in the right half-plane. A series inductor was needed, along with a shunt capacitor. Substitute the parameters. Get the result. He opened his eyes. Wrote down the steps. Checked them once. Correct.

Time passed second by second. The clock on the wall pointed to nine forty. He finished the last major problem. Checked the paper. No corrections. The derivations were complete, the units clearly marked. Eleven o’clock. The bell for handing in papers rang. He set down his pen. Stood up. Handed in the exam. Walked out of the classroom.

The timeline meshed into place. Eleven ten. He had to get to Old Chen’s repair shop. One and a half kilometers away. He quickened his pace. His stride lengthened to thirty centimeters. The throbbing in his left foot intensified. Sweat seeped from his temples and soaked the hair beside them. He crossed two streets and went around the market. Eleven forty. He pushed open the glass door. The wind chime rang once. Old Chen was behind the counter doing the accounts. He looked up at him. “Forty minutes late.”

“Held up on the way.” Lin Chen did not explain. He put down his bag, washed his hands, and put on an anti-static wrist strap. Old Chen pointed at the three Walkmans on the workbench. “Cassette players. Head alignment is off. Fifteen if you fix one. Break it and I dock you.”

“Understood.”

He sat down. Picked up the first one. Removed the back cover. The screwdriver braced against the clip. He pressed. Click. The cover came free. The internal structure was exposed. The ribbon cable had aged; the belt was slack. With tweezers, he picked up a pad of cotton dampened with anhydrous alcohol and wiped the magnetic head. His movements were very slow. His fingertips needed absolute steadiness. Under the table, his left foot curled involuntarily. Fluid from the wound had already soaked through the gauze and stuck to the skin. Every movement tugged at the nerves. He took a deep breath. Adjusted the rhythm of his breathing. Synchronized it with the movements of his hands. Wipe. Replace the belt. Realign the head. Power on. Test. The green light came on. Music flowed out. Steady. No noise. Old Chen came over, took a look, and nodded. He counted out fifteen yuan and put it on the table. The second one. The third one. Repeat. Disassemble. Clean. Calibrate. Test. Time passed minute by minute. Four in the afternoon. All three were finished. He straightened up. His neck gave a faint click. His left wrist felt numb and sore.

Old Chen handed him a cup of water. “Take a break.” Lin Chen accepted it and took a sip. The water was just warm enough. He walked into the back alley. Sunlight was cut by the tall buildings into narrow bands. He leaned against a brick wall. Took off the shoe on his left foot. Untied the laces. His sock was already soaked with sweat, yellowing at the edges. Carefully, he peeled back the tape. The gauze had adhered to the wound. He held his breath. With an iodine swab, he gently moistened the edges. Slowly separated it. The edges of the wound were red. Tissue fluid seeped out, carrying a faint metallic smell. No pus. But the healing had clearly slowed. He took out a fresh sterile gauze pad. Covered it. Wrapped it again. Tightened it. The motions were practiced. No extra emotion. He put the shoe back on. Tightened the laces. Returned to the counter. Old Chen was already gone. In the drawer lay today’s wages: forty-five yuan. Added to the fifteen from the morning, today’s income was sixty. He took out his graph paper and wrote: date. Income: 60. Expenses: iodine swabs, 2 yuan. Gauze, 1 yuan. Balance: 57. Distance from 800: 739. Days remaining: 19.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the shop. The sky was darkening. The streetlights came on. Twenty-five-centimeter strides. He returned to the dormitory. The corridor was quiet. He pushed open the door. Turned on the light. Warm yellow light. He sat at the desk and spread open his notebook of wrong answers. Turned to the page on RF attenuators. With a red pen, he circled the parameter range from today’s exam that he had not been fully sure about. He needed to check references to confirm it. He opened Principles of Measuring Instruments. Cross-checked it. Marked it. Eleven o’clock. He closed the book and prepared to rest. Once he stopped moving, the swelling pain in his left foot became even more pronounced. He filled a basin with cold water. Held his foot above it. Let the coolness seep upward. Closed his eyes. In his head he went over tomorrow’s route: get up at seven. Leave at seven twenty. Reach the shop at seven fifty. From eight to twelve, probably four units. From two to five in the afternoon, theory review. At five, go to the used-book market. The timeline meshed into place. No slack.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. They stopped at the entrance. No knock came. A slip of paper was pushed through the gap under the door. Lin Chen got up and picked it up. It had been left by the department’s teaching clerk. There was only one line on it: Notice for the provincial competition qualification physical exam. Next Monday, nine in the morning, university hospital. A recent certificate must be submitted showing no infectious disease and no limb injury affecting practical operation. Miss the deadline and qualification will be canceled. He stared at that line. The slip of paper was thin. The ink was printed dark. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Night wind rushed in. He lowered his head and glanced at his left foot. The edge of the gauze had already turned faintly yellow. The seepage was still continuing. The hospital certificate would require a doctor’s signature. The doctor would ask for an X-ray or a detailed examination. If the injury was discovered, he might be advised to withdraw from the competition. The gap of eight hundred yuan. The nineteen-day countdown. Nineteen days of physical overdraw. And this slip of paper. Three lines crossed again. Meshed. Locked. He picked up his pen and wrote on the graph paper: physical exam. Risk. Contingency plan. The pen hovered. Did not come down. Outside, the clouds covered the moonlight. The smell of diesel in the wind had faded. He capped the water bottle. Slung the canvas bag over his shoulder. The strap bit into his collarbone. He walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back once at the notebook of wrong answers and the insulated case on the desk. Then he pulled the door open and walked out. The window at the end of the corridor stood open. Wind poured in. He took a deep breath. The air smelled of dust. He stepped forward. Ahead. Twenty-five-centimeter strides. No stepping in puddles.