Chapter 82: The Return and the Measure

By the time the coach pulled into Qinghe County Bus Station, night had fully fallen. A plume of white exhaust hissed from the tailpipe, dissolving into the cold air with the smell of diesel. Lin Chen got off with his canvas bag in his arms. The moment his left foot touched the ground, a familiar dull pain rose from the wound beneath two layers of gauze. He shifted his weight, kept his stride to thirty centimeters, and followed the flow of passengers outside. The streetlamp by the station gate gave off a dim yellow light, picking out melon seed shells and cigarette butts scattered across the ground. He did not stop. He went straight onto the asphalt road leading to County No. 1 High School.

The road was smoother than the ones back in the village, but the dips and uneven patches were still there. Each step let him feel the slight rises and falls through the soles of his shoes. His mind automatically converted distance into numbers: from the station to the dormitory, 2.4 kilometers. At his current pace, it would take about thirty-five minutes. Enough time. No need to hurry. The provincial competition results were already fixed in place: second prize, thirty-fourth in the province. The bonus-point policy was written in black and white on the school notice board. What remained was to return to the original track and make the slipped gears mesh again.

When he reached the dorm building, the iron gate was half open, and the hallway carried the mixed smell of instant noodles and old books. He took out his key, unlocked the door, and turned on the light. Four of the six beds in the room were empty. In the second semester of senior year, the balance between commuting and boarding was quietly shifting. Some had moved out to rent rooms. Some had simply withdrawn from the dorm altogether. His own bed was still where it had always been, a thin layer of dust settled over the sheet. He put down the canvas bag and went first to the washroom to fill a basin with warm water. The water was not very hot, just enough to cut through the sharp smell of iodine. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he untied his laces and peeled off his sock. The edge of the gauze around his left ankle had yellowed; dried seepage had crusted into a hard shell. He dipped a cotton swab into saline and softened the edges bit by bit before peeling it away. The wound had shrunk by a circle compared to three days ago. Dark red granulation tissue was slowly creeping over it. No swelling. No heat. The rate of healing was in line with expectations. He painted on fresh iodine, waited for it to dry, laid on new gauze, and fixed it with medical tape. He moved slowly, but every step landed exactly where it should.

After tending to the wound, he opened the canvas bag. The insulated box, coaxial cable, draft paper, admission slip—he took them out one by one and returned them to the desk drawer. At the very back were the photocopy of his second-prize certificate and the score sheet. He did not pin them to the wall. He only slid them neatly into a hardbound notebook. An award was a result, not an end point. What he needed was the leverage that result provided. Ten extra points on the college entrance exam. Priority in the first round of independent admissions screening. On paper, those phrases weighed almost nothing. In real life, they could shift the order of an entire application list.

He opened his mistake notebook. The pages had already curled from being turned so often. The left-hand side was packed with RF derivations from the provincial competition period, error compensation formulas, and noise-floor correction logic. The right-hand side held his weak points in senior-year science and mathematics. He picked up his pen and wrote a new line in the blank space: Countdown to the first mock exam. Eleven days. Break down targets. Science: full method points on the big electromagnetism problem in physics; clear variable-control logic on chemistry experiment questions; no skipped steps in probability calculations on biology genetics questions. Math: speed up simplification in simultaneous equations for analytic geometry; no missing boundary values in derivative case analysis. Total score range: 615–625. The pen paused. He crossed out “above 620” and changed it to “615–625.” Leave margin. Do not set himself a target inflated beyond reality.

The next morning, at six-thirty, the wake-up bell rang on time. The corridor filled with the clatter of footsteps and the sounds of washing up. Lin Chen put on his rubber-soled shoes and tied them tight. When his left foot came down, the pain had already faded into the background, becoming a constant reminder instead of a sharp interruption. He carried his enamel mug to the washroom, filled half of it with cold water, and splashed his face. In the mirror, the hollows under his eyes had sunk slightly, but his gaze was calm. By the time he returned to the classroom, the countdown sign in the upper right corner of the blackboard had already been changed. Eleven days until the first mock exam. The chalk characters were large, their edges rough with powder.

Morning self-study was English. He spread open his vocabulary notebook and crossed out the words he had already mastered according to the memory curve. Around him, some students were reciting classical Chinese texts, others grinding through math papers. The air was filled with a taut silence. No one spoke. There was only the sound of pages turning and pen tips scraping over paper. He knew that sound well. From Qingshi Village to the county seat, from primary school to high school, he had spent his whole life moving through it. It was not warm, but it was dependable. It told you that as long as the pen was still moving, time was still moving forward.

During the break, Chen Hao came to his desk. He had two bottles of mineral water in his hand and set one down.

“The provincial results are out?” Chen Hao asked.

“Mm. Second prize.” Lin Chen unscrewed the cap and took a drink.

“Thirty-fourth. Just short of the provincial team.” Chen Hao’s tone was flat—no regret, no probing. “But the bonus points are enough. Your science scores have always been steady. If you can break 610 on this mock exam, then computer science at those science-and-engineering schools in the province is basically secure.”

Lin Chen nodded. “I’m still looking at application choices.”

“Looking at what? Just apply.” Chen Hao pulled over the chair beside him and sat down. “My dad asked around. This year computer science is expanding enrollment, so the cutoffs should drop a bit. But the experimental-class spots at the good schools are limited. You have to grab those through independent admissions or competition bonus points. With a provincial second prize, you’ll definitely pass the first screening. Just prepare for the interview and don’t get nervous.”

“What do they test in the interview?” Lin Chen asked.

“Fundamentals, logical thinking, and stress resistance. Some schools ask about project experience. That hands-on part from your provincial competition? Dress it up a little and it’ll be enough.” Chen Hao paused. “But don’t count on bonus points to carry you into the very top schools. In the end it still comes down to raw exam score. The bonus is only a threshold.”

“I understand.” Lin Chen set down the bottle. Here, the information gap became something visible. The road laid out for Chen Hao’s family was made of phone calls, connections, and plans drawn up half a year ahead. His own road was made of mistake notebooks, gauze, and one extra problem solved every day. Different paths, same destination. He did not need envy. He only needed to calculate the known variables into his own formula.

“Thanks,” he said.

Chen Hao waved it off and left. Lin Chen opened his math paper again. The last derivative problem. He read the question, sketched the graph, defined the function, differentiated. His pen moved quickly across the scratch paper. He marked the boundary values for case analysis in red. He broke the method points down according to the grading scheme. There was no shortcut, only repetition. Repetition until it became muscle memory, repetition until he could still write it out from memory even if the exam hall lost power.

Physics was in the afternoon. The teacher handed out simulation papers from previous years. When Lin Chen got his, he did not start right away. He spent five minutes reading through the entire exam, marking the distribution of question types and the gradient of difficulty. The first eight multiple-choice questions were basic; the last four were integrated. The experiment section tested circuit design and error analysis. Of the calculation problems, the first was mechanics, the second electromagnetism, and the third the hardest final problem. He advanced in order. When he hit a problem that snagged, he did not force it. Skip it, mark it, come back later. Time allocation: thirty minutes for multiple choice, twenty-five for experiments, forty-five for calculations. Leave ten minutes for checking. It was a habit he had developed during the hands-on provincial competition. Systems had fault tolerance. Exams did too. Do not chase perfection. Chase stable output.

Evening study ended at nine-thirty. He packed his schoolbag and returned to the dorm. His left foot was already numb, but his gait remained steady. Sitting at the desk, he checked the answer key for the afternoon’s papers. One physics multiple-choice question wrong: a directional error in the electromagnetic field problem. Math all correct. Two method points lost on the chemistry experiment question because he had not written “control variables.” He recorded them one by one in the mistake notebook. No emotions, only cause and correction plan. The pen made a dry rustling sound over the page. Outside, the county town was quiet, broken only now and then by a dog barking in the distance. He closed the notebook and turned off the light. Then he lay down. The water stain on the ceiling was still there, like an unclosed circuit diagram. He shut his eyes. In his mind he ran through tomorrow’s plan. Morning reading. Math focus practice. Timed science drills. Change the dressing. Clear steps. No excess.

On the third day, the homeroom teacher announced the exact schedule for the first mock exam during class meeting. The date had been moved one day earlier. Exam rooms would be reassigned according to grades. He was in Exam Room One, by the window, seat number seven. The teacher also handed out a thick volume titled College Admissions Application Guide. The paper was thin, the ink smell heavy. Inside, densely printed, were school codes, program directories, and previous years’ cutoff scores for universities across the country. He flipped to the page for science-and-engineering schools in his province. Computer Science and Technology. Electronic Information Engineering. Automation. The score lines lay across the paper like thresholds. He took out a pencil and circled several target schools. The size of each circle indicated priority. In the blank space beside them he wrote: First-round screening materials checklist. Copy of competition certificate. Transcript. Personal statement. Recommendation letter. Deadline: April 15. From today, nine days remained.

He closed the guide. His fingers rested on the cover. Nine days later, the first mock results would be released. The screening materials had to be submitted. Two timelines intersected. In those nine days, he had to push his science and math scores above the safety line, while also preparing the materials with zero room for error. The pressure had physical weight, like a slab of stone pressing on his chest. But he did not avoid it. He was used to breathing under heavy load. He opened the mistake notebook and wrote on a new page: Chapter 82 goals. Mock exam sprint. Materials preparation. Initial application screening. The pen came down. Ink seeped into the paper fibers. He looked up once at the countdown number on the blackboard. Ten. The digit was whitened with chalk dust. He lowered his head again and continued calculating. Wind passed through the corridor outside and lifted one corner of the curtain. Dust drifted slowly down through the shaft of light. He did not look at it. He kept his eyes only on the formulas on the page.

When the bell rang at the end of evening study, the homeroom teacher added one more notice at the last minute. The first-round results for independent admissions from three key provincial universities would be released on April 12. Those who passed would have to attend written exams and interviews in the provincial capital on April 18. The first mock scores would come out on April 11. From April 12 to April 18 was exactly the golden period of second-round review. Going to the provincial capital meant taking three days off and disrupting his original review rhythm. Not going meant forfeiting the screening qualification and severing the bonus-point leverage. A murmur went through the classroom. Some complained that the schedule was too tight. Others started asking about chartered transportation. Lin Chen did not look up. On his scratch paper, he drew a timeline.

April 11. Scores released. April 12. Check screening results. April 13–17. Go to the provincial capital and prepare. April 18. Interview. April 19. Return to the county. Second-round review delayed by approximately 15%. Risk: decline in science problem-solving rhythm. Countermeasure: carry his mistake notebook and past exam papers; complete daily timed drills on the train.

He crossed out “high-speed rail” and replaced it with “hard seat.” The budget was tight; time could be traded for money. He capped his pen. No hesitation. Only calculation. The next step was always the next step.