Chapter 77: Gauze and Gradations

At 5:40 in the morning, before the alarm had even gone off, Lin Chen was already awake. In the gray-white light, the water stains on the ceiling gradually came into focus, like a faded map. He flexed his toes first. A distinct pulling sensation came from the big toe of his left foot. The gauze at the edge of the wound had half dried, but the inner side was still tacky with moisture. The seepage had not stopped. He pushed back the thin blanket, sat up, and felt under the bed for the iodine, sterile gauze, and medical tape. He moved slowly. When he peeled away the old tape, the skin pulled taut. Holding his breath, he picked up a cotton swab with tweezers, dipped it in iodine, and cleaned the wound in a spiral from the center outward. The pale yellow tissue fluid was absorbed away, exposing the dark red granulation tissue beneath. No pus. But the healing was two days slower than expected. He applied a fresh sterile dressing and fixed it in place with crossed strips of tape. The pressure had to be exact. Too tight, and it would restrict circulation to the toes and leave them numb; too loose, and the friction of the shoe would tear the edges open again. Socks on. Shoes on. Laces tied at the loosest setting. Stride controlled to twenty-five centimeters. Weight shifted to the right. With every step, the right foot took the load first and the left only touched lightly, as if he were walking over thin ice. The corridor was quiet, broken only by the distant rumble from the boiler room. He filled half a basin with cold water and plunged his face into it. The water was icy. It woke him fully. He dried his face, slung the canvas bag over his shoulder, and felt the strap bite into his collarbone. Then he pushed open the door. Morning fog drifted low over the ground.

At 7:10, he pushed open the glass door of the repair shop. The wind chime gave a dull sound. Old Chen sat behind the counter reading the newspaper without looking up. “A lot of jobs today. Four cassette players, two radios. Deliver them by three this afternoon.”

“All right.” Lin Chen set down his bag, washed his hands, and put on an anti-static wrist strap. Parts lay spread across the workbench. Screwdriver. Tweezers. Multimeter. Anhydrous alcohol. He sat down and picked up the first machine. Removed the back cover. The ribbon cable had aged; the potentiometer was oxidized. He cleaned the contacts with a cotton swab dipped in alcohol. Under the table, his left foot hovered slightly off the ground to keep the sole from pressing against the wound. Every time he repaired a machine, he ran through the signal path once in his mind. Input stage. Amplification stage. Output stage. The fault was usually at the weakest point. Oxidation. Poor contact. Replacement. Calibration. Power on. Test. The green light came on. The sound was steady. Old Chen came over, gave it a glance, and handed him fifteen yuan. The second machine. The third. Repeat. Disassemble. Clean. Calibrate. Test. Time was sliced into equal segments. By eleven in the morning, all four were done. He straightened up. His neck gave a faint click. His left wrist ached and tingled. The throbbing in his left foot became clearer once he stopped moving, like a thin thread pulling continuously beneath the skin. He walked into the back alley. Sunlight was cut by the surrounding buildings into narrow bands. Leaning against the brick wall, he took off his shoe and checked the gauze. The edges were faintly yellow. The amount of seepage was normal. He wrapped it again. His movements were practiced. No extra emotion. He returned to the counter. Old Chen handed him a cup of warm water. He took it and drank a sip. The temperature was just right. In the drawer lay the morning’s pay: sixty yuan. Added to yesterday’s remaining balance. He took out his graph paper and wrote: date. Income: 60. Expenses: iodine, 2 yuan. Gauze, 1 yuan. Balance: 114. Distance to 800: 686. Days remaining: 17. The pen tip paused for half a second. He crossed out “collect copper wire.” The timeline had to mesh again.

At one in the afternoon, the used-book market was canceled. He slung on his bag and headed to the library. Third floor. Corner seat. By the window. Plenty of light. He spread open his notebook of wrong answers and turned to the page on RF attenuators and spectrum-analyzer warm-up parameters. The blind spots circled in red were still there. After a cold start, the baseline noise of the HP8591E would drift with temperature. The exam rules required the equipment to be powered on twenty minutes in advance, but in practice the machine needed thirty minutes to stabilize. That ten-minute discrepancy was enough to make a manually set 10 dB attenuation reading deviate from the standard value. He opened Principles of Measuring Instruments. Cross-checked it against the manual. Looked up the temperature-drift coefficient. Plugged it into the formula. The pen moved quickly over the scratch paper. Derive. Verify. Revise. He needed a compensation algorithm. During the practical test, he would read the initial noise baseline and manually add a correction value. The calculation was cumbersome. The margin for error was razor-thin. He got it wrong three times. Crossed it out. Wrote it again. The fourth time, the result converged. Error controlled within plus or minus 0.2 dB. He closed the book and rubbed his brow. Outside the window, the shadows of the parasol trees swayed across the desk. Wind moved through the corridor, carrying the whistle from the distant athletic field. He closed his eyes and simulated the exam process in his head. Enter the room. Power on. Read the baseline. Calculate compensation. Set attenuation. Connect the signal source. Calibrate. The timing of every step. Muscle memory. Breathing rhythm. No slack. The smell of old books in the library mixed with dust and sat heavy in his lungs. He turned to the next page. Fundamentals of digital signal processing. Fourier transform. Discrete convolution. Dense formulas. He broke them down line by line, turning abstract symbols into concrete circuit responses. More and more red marks filled the notebook of wrong answers. Like a net. Catching every point where mistakes might happen.

At five in the evening, he went to the university hospital. Disinfectant mixed with mildew. A long line stretched down the corridor. Lin Chen stood at the end. Twenty-five-centimeter strides. No stepping in puddles. He needed to confirm the physical exam process, and the doctor’s standards for determining whether a limb injury would affect practical work. One person after another went in ahead of him. The call numbers echoed through the hollow corridor. When it was his turn, he pushed open the door. The fluorescent light was harsh. The doctor was a middle-aged man in reading glasses, writing in a medical file. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I need a certificate stating I have no infectious disease. It’s for provincial competition check-in.”

The doctor looked up at him. “Take off your shoe. Let me see your foot.”

Lin Chen sat down. Untied his laces. Took off his sock. The edge of the gauze had already turned yellow. The seepage had soaked through the inner layer. The doctor frowned. “An open wound. How did that happen?”

“I scraped it moving something heavy.”

“High risk of infection. No strenuous activity. I can’t issue the certificate. I recommend withdrawing from the competition.”

Lin Chen did not argue. He looked at the red stamp on the doctor’s desk. The ink pad beside it was full.

“What if it were only a soft-tissue contusion?”

The doctor stopped writing. “A contusion wouldn’t affect practical work. But yours is clearly in the infectious stage. The university hospital has rules. If you compete while injured and something happens, we bear the responsibility.”

Lin Chen said nothing. He knew the rules. He also knew the line they would not cross. He put his shoe back on and tightened the laces. “Thank you, doctor.” He stood and walked out of the consultation room. The corridor air was cool. He leaned against the wall. In his mind, the information rapidly reassembled itself. Forcing it would not work. Concealing it would not work. He could only change routes. A department-issued certificate required the counselor’s signature. The counselor cared about the outcome, not the process. What he needed was a written assessment that said “under control, does not affect practical work,” not “no injury.” He needed to find Old Zhao. Old Zhao had led competition teams before. He knew what the academic office cared about.

At eight that night, back in the dorm, the desk lamp cast a dim yellow light. Lin Chen sat at the desk, spread out the graph paper, and wrote: physical exam. Risk. Contingency plan. The pen hovered. Footsteps sounded outside the door. Stopped at the entrance. No knock. A slip of paper was pushed in through the gap beneath the door. Lin Chen stood up and picked it up. It was from the department’s teaching clerk. There was only one line on it: Second update to the provincial competition practical equipment list. HP8591E replaced by a new domestic model. Manual attenuation step changed to 0.5 dB. Theory exam scope expanded to include Fundamentals of Digital Signal Processing. He stared at the line. The paper was thin. The ink was printed dark. The equipment had changed. The step size had changed. The scope had expanded. Three lines crossed again. Meshed. Locked. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Night wind poured in. He lowered his head and glanced at his left foot. The yellow along the edge of the gauze had deepened. The seepage was still continuing. The eight-hundred-yuan shortfall. Seventeen days on the countdown. And this slip of paper. He picked up his pen and crossed out the old contingency plan on the graph paper. Then he wrote again: new equipment. New step size. Rebuild compensation algorithm. Physical exam. Change route. The pen came down. The handwriting was clear. Clouds outside 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 went 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.