Chapter 84: Mock Exams and Leeway

The countdown number “6” was wiped away by the student on duty with a blackboard eraser. Chalk dust drifted down, settling into a faint gray line along the edge of the podium. “5” was rewritten on the board. Lin Chen sat in the seventh row by the window, his fingertips pressing against the corner of a comprehensive science mock exam paper. The paper was rough, offering a slight drag against his skin. He didn’t need to open a textbook. Last night’s review of his mistakes had already been mapped out in his mind like a topological network. Lenz’s law of electromagnetic induction, the direction of shifts in chemical equilibrium, branching diagrams for genetic probabilities. Each knowledge point had been broken down into independent modules, like surface-mount components on a circuit board, waiting to be powered on and tested.

The morning reading bell rang. Uneven voices chanting and reciting filled the classroom. Lin Chen spread out a sheet of scratch paper and silently wrote out the point-earning steps for the physics essay questions. He didn’t write out full derivations, only listing key formulas and scoring markers. College entrance exam grading was an assembly-line process; clear steps mattered more than perfect answers. He forced himself to switch channels. Competition thinking pursued the optimal solution; exam thinking pursued stable scores. Their underlying logic differed, but their execution paths were identical: deconstruct, verify, allow for error. The pen tip traced short, straight lines across the paper. A rustling sound. Outside the window, the shadow of a camphor tree slowly crept across the desk. He didn’t look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the paper.

Nine o’clock sharp. The first mock exam began.

Invigilators distributed the test papers. Sealing line. Name. Admission ticket number. The pen touched down. First multiple-choice question. Process of elimination. Second. Formula substitution. He didn’t chase speed, only controlled accuracy. When faced with lengthy comprehensive questions, he first underlined the given conditions, marked the unknowns, then matched them to the corresponding theorems. The rhythm of his pen was steady. His breathing even. When he hit a snag, he circled the question number and moved on. No lingering. Time flowed like water through his fingers. He didn’t glance at the quartz clock on the wall. He simply advanced at his own pace. The science exam paper gradually filled up. After finishing the final biology genetics question, he checked the filled bubbles on his answer sheet. He capped his pen. Fifteen minutes remained until submission. He wouldn’t hand it in early. He sat in his seat, closed his eyes, and ran through the potential point-loss areas in his mind. No anxiety. Only a checklist.

The afternoon session was mathematics. The final problem combined analytic geometry and derivatives. The computational load was massive. He set up the system of equations, eliminated variables, and took derivatives. Two full pages of scratch paper were filled. The result contained a square root. He substituted it back into the original equation to verify. Confirmed correct. The submission bell rang. He followed the crowd out of the exam hall. The corridors were filled with voices comparing answers. Some sighed, others argued in low tones. Lin Chen walked with his head down. He didn’t join the discussion. Right or wrong, the outcome was set; debating would only drain his emotional reserves. He returned to the classroom, unzipped his backpack, took out his ledger, and flipped to the page detailing his trip to the provincial capital.

Hard-seat train ticket: 24 yuan. Guesthouse: 30 yuan. Meals: 30 yuan. Printing and photocopying: 2.5 yuan. Emergency reserve: 5 yuan. Total: 91.5 yuan. Current cash on hand: 33.8 yuan. Shortfall: 57.7 yuan. The numbers were cold. He stared at them. No backing down. Option 1: Apply to the homeroom teacher for an advance on the work-study subsidy. Requires approval, takes three days, might miss the ticket purchase window. Option 2: Borrow an old oscilloscope motherboard from Old Zhao, take it to the electronics market to strip and sell parts. Time-consuming, price uncertain. Option 3: Cut provincial capital expenses, sleep overnight in the school computer lab. Requires a key, violates rules, high risk. Option 4: Contact the team advisor from the provincial university of technology competition, ask if the lab allows an overnight stay. Risk: burns social capital. Benefit: saves 15 yuan. Success rate: unknown. He crossed out the first two. Put an X next to the third. Wrote: Execute D. Contact team advisor. Backup: If refused, activate the remittance slip for his younger brother’s medication (only as a last resort). He closed the ledger. Counted his change again. Three ten-yuan notes, three one-yuan notes, eighty cents in coins. Bound them with a rubber band. Slipped them into his inner pocket. The fabric rubbed against his skin, leaving a slight raised sensation. Its presence was definite. Like an anchor.

Evening self-study. Only the sound of turning pages and pens scratching against paper remained in the classroom. Lin Chen took out the folder for his independent enrollment application. Checked it page by page. Personal statement. Transcript. Copies of competition certificates. Recommendation letter. Every sheet was flat, without a single crease. He needed to go to the Academic Affairs Office tomorrow morning to find Teacher Wang and get the final official seal. He mapped out his route: Dormitory → Cafeteria (steamed bun + soy milk, 1.2 yuan) → Teaching Building → Academic Affairs Office → Laboratory (return books) → School Hospital (obtain health certificate). Time calculated down to the minute. He didn’t need inspiration. Only execution.

9:40 PM. The dismissal bell rang. He packed his bag. As he reached the door, Chen Hao called out to him.

“Lin Chen, the interview notice for the provincial university of technology just dropped in the group chat. The written test has been changed to an online computer test. Bring a USB drive. The exam hall won’t provide desktops; only peripherals are allowed.”

Lin Chen’s steps halted. Computer test. USB drive. He quickly pulled up a configuration checklist in his mind. His laptop was under his dorm bed, old, but capable of running basic C and Python. He had two USB drives: one 4GB, one 8GB. Exam environment: unknown. Compiler version: unknown. System privileges: unknown. Time: tomorrow night. He nodded. “Got it.”

Chen Hao looked at him, hesitating. “You’re bringing your laptop? Aren’t there computers in the lab?”

“The exam rules say bring your own,” Lin Chen said. His voice was calm.

Chen Hao didn’t press further. He turned and left.

Lin Chen stood at the end of the corridor. The night wind slipped through the window, rustling the notices pinned to the bulletin board. The edges of the paper curled. He walked back to his dorm, twisted on the desk lamp. The light was dim and yellow. He dragged out an old canvas bag from under his bed and unzipped it. Inside lay a half-assembled circuit board, a few yellowed programming manuals, and a secondhand laptop with a discolored casing. He plugged it in. The fan emitted a dull hum. The screen lit up. Blue background, white text. A progress bar crawled slowly upward. He opened Notepad, created a new document, and typed: Chapter 84 Objectives. Mock exam results. Seal application materials. Configure computer test environment. The pen tip paused on the paper. He looked out the window. The county town’s lights were sparse. Like scattered stars. He closed the laptop. The next step was always the next step.