Chapter 95: Ledger and Scale

The slow train carriage smelled of coal smoke and sour sweat. Lin Chen sat on the edge of a hard seat, his right foot planted firmly on the floor, his left hanging suspended, the sole of his shoe braced against the luggage rack opposite. The wheels struck the rails in a steady rhythm—clack, clack. He kept his eyes closed. In his mind there was no scenery, only a timetable. Provincial capital to county town: three hours and forty minutes on the slow train. Fare: two yuan eight jiao. He pulled out his ledger, crossed out “return trip” with the blunt tip of his pencil, and wrote: Actual expense 2.8. Balance: -0.2. A shortfall of two jiao. He calculated his stride. From the county bus station to Qingshi Village: twelve li. With the condition his foot was in now, he could manage three and a half li an hour. He would need three and a half hours. He could make it before dark. Two jiao saved.

Outside the train window, the scenery receded from factory buildings to hills, then to the familiar loess slopes. He opened his eyes. The edge of the dressing on his left foot had already dried stiff, and the seeped tissue fluid had glued the gauze to the flesh. Every jolt tugged at his Achilles tendon. He did not move. He only shifted his weight half an inch to the right. Someone in the carriage was cracking melon seeds, leaving the shells scattered across the aisle. An older man in the front row was snoring with half a wrinkled copy of Reference News clutched in his hand. Lin Chen pulled the provincial evening paper from his inner pocket. Ink had already smudged onto his fingers. He read the line “pilot program for the assessment of basic computer applications” once more. A supplementary test for science-track students. Not rumor, but an official document with red letterhead. That meant the dimensions of college entrance selection were physically shifting. Knowing how to write code was no longer just a bonus for competition students; it might become a threshold even for ordinary examinees. He folded the newspaper into quarters and tucked it into the innermost layer of his corrections notebook. The paper was rough, the edges already fraying.

By the time he reached the station, the sky had already gone gray. Tricycle drivers were touting for fares outside the bus station. He shook his head and turned onto the road out of town. The wind was harsher than in the provincial capital, carrying the raw smell of earth. Twelve li. He walked it in four hours. By the time he reached the village entrance, the moon had already climbed into the branches of the old locust tree. The courtyard gate stood ajar. He pushed it open. The light in the main room was still on. Wang Guiying was warming food at the stove. Hearing his footsteps, she turned. Her gaze swept over his mud-streaked trouser legs and the slight limp in his left foot. She said nothing, only turned back to lift the pot. Lin Jianguo sat on the threshold smoking his pipe, the ember in the bowl glowing and fading. Xiaoman had fallen asleep over the table, still clutching that worn-down pencil. Beside him sat a bowl of corn mush gone cold. Lin Chen set his backpack on the bench and took the remaining coins and crumpled small bills from his pocket. Three yuan two jiao in all. He placed them on the table. “Mom, I saved two yuan on the road. This is what’s left.”

Wang Guiying glanced at it and did not count it. She only said, “Go wash your feet. The water’s boiled.”

The water by the well was icy. He took off his rubber shoes and socks. His left ankle was swollen and shiny. When he peeled back the dressing, the gauze had adhered to the flesh, and when it came away it tore off a layer of blood scab. He bit down on a towel and softened it little by little with warm water. After cleaning it thoroughly, he put on the herbal salve his mother had prepared in advance. The coolness pressed down the burning pain. He went back into the main room, spread open the ledger, crossed out “pre-interview preparations,” and wrote: Countdown 6 days. Goal: parallel advance on both lines.

He pulled out two sheets of white paper. On the left he wrote “Provincial Capital Interview,” and on the right, “Senior-Year Review.” The timeline ran from six in the morning to eleven at night. Each hour was cut into blocks. Interview requirements: personal statement, experiment review, on-the-spot questioning. Review requirements: finish the first round of math, physics, and chemistry review; English vocabulary; Chinese composition. Conflict point: next Wednesday morning he had to report to school for materials verification, and the first mock exam was on that same day. He would have to move comprehensive-science practice to weekends and deep night, and compress interview preparation into early mornings and after supper. He picked up the pen and drew lines across the page. Connected them. Marked priorities. He did not write “try my best.” He wrote only “complete.”

He flipped open the corrections notebook. Tucked inside was a note that Teacher Wang from County No. 1 High School had sent through someone the week before. The handwriting was rushed: “First mock exam set for next Wednesday. Absentees counted as zero. Review outline already distributed. Must bring it back.” Next Wednesday. Exactly the day Provincial Tech required him to appear on campus for materials verification. The verification site was the admissions office on the first floor of the main building. Miss your turn, and the opportunity would be void. He stared at the note for a long time. Zero. That meant losing his countywide ranking for reference. It meant losing the baseline for filling out college applications. He could not miss the exam. But he could not throw away the interview qualification either. He needed a third path.

He opened the county library borrowing catalog and found Fundamentals of Electronic Information Experiments and Gaokao Comprehensive Science Mock Papers. The catalog showed that both were available. But the borrowing rules read: priority to senior-year students, and homeroom teacher signature required. His current identity was “competition student.” He knew his homeroom teacher’s attitude well enough. Not opposed, but not supportive either. If he asked for a signature, he would most likely be urged to “focus on the college entrance exam.”

Lin Chen closed the notebook, stood up, and went into the inner room. His father was already asleep, breathing heavily. Lin Chen carefully pulled open the drawer. Inside was the cigarette pack his father used for keeping small household accounts. He took out a piece of cigarette-pack paper, cut it in half, and began to write. One letter was for the admissions office at Provincial Tech, asking that the materials verification be compressed as much as possible into that morning so he could rush back to the county town in time for the first mock exam. The other was for the Academic Affairs Office at County No. 1 High School, asking that if travel delays made him late, he be allowed to make up the comprehensive-science paper that same afternoon. He asked for no special treatment. He simply stated the facts and his proposed solution. His handwriting was neat. No extra words. When he was done, he put the letters into envelopes, affixed eight-fen stamps, and set them on the table. Tomorrow morning, he would go to the town post office and mail them.

He blew out the oil lamp and lay down. The wooden bed gave a faint creak. His left foot throbbed in the dark. But the table in his mind was already full. Six days. Enough time to twist the two lines into a single rope. Wind rose outside, rattling the window paper. He closed his eyes. His breathing gradually steadied.

Early the next morning, before dawn, he got up. He tucked the envelopes into his inner pocket and pushed open the door. On the yellow dirt road outside the courtyard stood a familiar black bicycle. In the front basket sat a kraft-paper bag weighed down with a stone. His name was written on it. Old Zhao, the county postman, had left it there. He walked over, picked up the bag, and opened it. It was not a reply to the letters he had written. It was a supplementary notice just issued by Provincial Tech. Official red letterhead. Urgent. The title read: “Explanation of Materials Required for the Final Interview of the Electronic Information Experimental Class.”

The attached list named three required items: copies of award certificates, the final draft of a personal statement, and three recent one-inch photographs. Note: candidates whose photographs or materials are incomplete will not be scheduled for an interview slot.

Lin Chen’s finger stopped on the page. Photos, photocopies, travel money—every last thing required cash on hand. The balance in his ledger was negative. Five days remained before reporting. Wind swept dust up from the ground. He lifted his head and looked toward the village entrance. The road ahead was still long. But the account had to be settled.