Chapter 103: The Measure of Ninety Minutes

The dorm room was very dark. Only the light from the streetlamp outside came through the window, cutting a cold gray rectangle across the mottled wall. Lin Chen sat on the edge of his bed, his left foot suspended in the air and his right foot planted on the icy concrete floor. He spread out a sheet of scratch paper, and the tip of his pencil drew dense timing marks across it. Ninety minutes. One hundred twenty minutes. With no buffer from lab work, the physics, chemistry, and biology sections of the combined science exam would have to connect seamlessly. He redistributed the time again: forty-five minutes for physics, thirty for chemistry, fifteen for biology. No more than two minutes for each multiple-choice question. For the long problems, he would write only the core formulas and key steps, picking up method points by landing the right keywords. He did not need perfection. He only needed to bite down on every point he could take from the gaps the rules allowed.

He flipped his error notebook to the science section and quickly reviewed the models from pages 47 to 62. Inclined-plane friction, electromagnetic induction, chemical equilibrium, genetic probability. The knowledge points were sifted through his mind like an old radio tuning across frequencies, static filtered away until only clear bands remained. Two ten a.m. He set down his pencil and began tending to his left foot. The gauze was already soaked through, its edges stained a dull yellow. He dampened a fresh strip of gauze with the last of the warm water in his thermos and gently cleaned the wound. There was no disinfectant, only a physical rinse. There was not much seepage, but the swelling felt like a thick layer of rubber wrapped around his ankle. He took two strips of medical tape and crossed them over the outside of the bandage, locking the ankle in place. The instant the tape tightened, a sharp pain shot up his calf along the nerves. He held his breath and waited for it to pass before slowly forcing his foot back into his shoe. He tied the laces tight—not for comfort, but to bind his swollen foot and the shoe upper into a single unit, reducing friction and wobble when he walked.

Five forty. The alarm had not gone off; he woke on his own. There was still even breathing throughout the dorm. He rose as quietly as he could and packed his admission slip, 2B pencils, eraser, and ruler into a clear document pouch. The zipper of his schoolbag was drawn all the way down with a soft click. He pushed open the door, and the sound-activated light in the corridor came on at once. The early-autumn wind poured up the stairwell carrying the dampness of dew. Holding the railing, he made his way downstairs. Each time his left foot touched the ground, the tape and bandage compressed the pain into a muffled dull thud. He adjusted his gait, putting his full weight onto his right leg and using the left only as a balance point, swinging it forward mechanically. Under normal circumstances, it took eight minutes to walk from the dorm to Room 304 in the science building. Today he had allowed himself twelve.

At six oh five, he stood in the lobby on the first floor of the science building. The glass doors reflected his figure: a washed-out school uniform, dried mud spattering the trouser leg, his back held absolutely straight. He checked his watch. Six ten. Footsteps came from the far end of the corridor as a proctor approached carrying the sealed exam packet. The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed through the empty hall. He followed the thin stream of people upstairs, his steps very light. The door to Room 304 was open; only three students taking deferred exams were already inside. He took a seat in the second-to-last row by the window. The desktop was clean, holding only an answer sheet, an exam paper, and a bottle of glue. The proctor checked his admission slip and handed out the papers. Seven fifty. The bell had not rung yet, but the air was already taut. He opened the exam and scanned the structure quickly. Sixteen multiple-choice questions. Three long physics problems. Two chemistry problems. Two biology problems. The total number of questions had not been reduced, but the stems of the hardest questions had been compressed, making the conditions more concealed. He picked up his pencil and wrote down the known quantities from the first physics problem on the scratch paper.

At eight o'clock, the starting bell rang. The pencil point hit the page with a soft rasp, and he dropped into focus. Multiple-choice first: elimination combined with dimensional analysis, two minutes per question. For the long physics problems, no long derivations—straight to Newton's second law and conservation of energy, plug in the numbers, solve for the result. Time moved forward like a spring wound tight, clicking from notch to notch. Forty-five minutes passed, and he brought physics to a close. He looked up at the wall clock. Eight forty-five. Four minutes slower than planned. He drew a deep breath and turned to the chemistry section. Chemical equilibrium and organic deduction—he was used to working backward from structural formulas to reconstruct reaction paths. But hidden in the third long problem was a trap: the reaction conditions had shifted from "normal temperature and pressure" to "high temperature and high pressure," reversing the direction of equilibrium entirely. His pencil paused. If he wrote from habit, he would lose eight points immediately. He stopped, closed his eyes, and replayed Le Chatelier's principle in his mind at speed. As temperature rose, the endothermic direction moved forward; as pressure rose, equilibrium moved toward the side with fewer gas molecules. With the conditions stacked together, he had to judge them step by step. He opened his eyes and rewrote the equations. The formulas on the scratch paper were crossed out and written again. Another six minutes slipped away.

Nine ten. Chemistry finished. Biology had only fifteen minutes left. The swelling pain in his left foot had already pushed past the restraint of the tape, becoming a continuous, burning throb. Sweat slid from his temple and dripped onto the edge of the answer sheet. He did not dare wipe it away for fear of smearing the filled circles. He turned to the genetics problem in biology. The pedigree chart was complicated: autosomal recessive inheritance combined with a probability calculation. He drew the inheritance diagram directly, skipped the written explanation, and wrote only the genotype ratios and final probability. His pen sped up, and the muscles in his wrist began to ache. Nine twenty. The last long problem. The stem was long, involving energy flow and material cycling in an ecosystem. He quickly circled the key phrases: producers fixing solar energy, assimilated amount of primary consumers, respiratory consumption, unused remainder. The formulas assembled themselves automatically in his mind. He wrote out the calculation, substituted the numbers, and got the result. Nine twenty-eight. He checked the filled answer sheet. No missed questions. No shifted lines. He put down his pen and leaned back in the chair. The numbness in his left foot spread again, but this time it carried the lightness of exhaustion after collapse.

At nine thirty, the collection bell rang. The proctor gathered the exam papers and answer sheets. Lin Chen stood up. When his left foot touched the ground, his knee softened slightly. He braced himself against the edge of the desk and steadied himself. By the time he stepped out of the classroom, the corridor was already empty. Sunlight slanted in through the windows, splashing harsh white glare across the terrazzo floor. He moved slowly down the stairs, every step feeling as though he were treading on cotton. Back in the dorm, he took off his shoe. The bandage had been soaked completely through with sweat. The tape at the edges had curled up, exposing the dark red swollen skin beneath. The wound had started seeping again, spreading a small wet stain across the gauze. He did not deal with it immediately. Instead, he went first to the sink and splashed cold water over his face. The water running across his cheeks took away part of the heat. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, opened his ledger, and added a line beneath yesterday's record:

09:30 Deferred exam finished. Completed the science paper under the new rhythm. Time allocation: Physics 49 min, Chemistry 36 min, Biology 15 min. Overtime by 10 min, recovered by compressing method points. Left foot swelling not gone down. Must keep it immobilized.

He closed the ledger and pulled out that copy of Fundamentals of Electronic Information Experiments from under his pillow. The verification for Provincial Tech was over, but the gears of senior year were still turning. The deferred exam results would be released in three days and merged with the first mock exam into the grade-wide rankings. He did not know how many points he would get, but he did know that the rules had been tested and made to run. Now he only had to wait.

At two in the afternoon, the homeroom teacher called him to the office. A printed list lay on the desk, headed Provincial Institute of Technology Preliminary Approved Admissions List for Independent Recruitment. The teacher said nothing. He only circled one name on the sheet with a red pen. Lin Chen's gaze dropped to the page. His name was on the third line. Next to it was a smaller note: Please bring the original college entrance examination registration form to the Provincial Admissions Office before 14:00 this Friday to confirm archive transfer. Failure to do so by the deadline will be treated as automatic withdrawal.

He looked up. The homeroom teacher watched him, his tone even. "The list only just came down. Provincial Tech wants priority access to your file. But your deferred exam score hasn't come out yet. If your total first-mock score falls out of the top fifty in the grade, Provincial Tech's admission slot will roll down to the next alternate." The teacher paused. "Friday at two p.m. You have only two days to wait for the score, and then go to the provincial capital."

Lin Chen nodded. No excitement. No panic. He turned and walked out of the office. The wind in the corridor was cooler than it had been that morning. He touched the ledger in his pocket. Two days. One hundred twenty kilometers. Archive confirmation. Deferred exam results. The condition of his left foot. All the variables had stacked themselves together again. He went down the stairs slowly, but with a clear direction. He needed to go to the post office in town to check the exact procedure for archive transfer. At the same time, he had to clean his injured left foot thoroughly. When he went to the provincial capital on Friday, he could not go limping.

Back in the dorm, he spread the scratch paper out again. This time he was drawing a route map. From the county south bus station to the long-distance terminal in the provincial capital, the earliest bus left at six forty in the morning, with a travel time of two hours and forty minutes. To reach the Provincial Admissions Office after arrival, he would need two bus transfers and should reserve another forty minutes. If the deferred exam results were released on Thursday afternoon, he would have to leave at dawn on Friday. The funding gap surfaced again: twelve yuan for the bus ticket, two yuan for city buses, five yuan for a simple lunch. His current balance was zero. He needed to scrape together another nineteen yuan before tonight. He pulled out the contact information the repair-shop owner had left him, his fingertip resting on the number for two seconds. He did not hesitate. He headed for the public phone downstairs in the dormitory.

A long busy tone sounded in the receiver. On the third ring, someone answered.

"Hello?"

"Master, it's the student who borrowed the wrench last week. Do you still need someone to help sort old parts? I can come tomorrow morning."

There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. "Tomorrow morning won't do. Two in the afternoon. Piece-rate pay, settled when you're done."

"All right. I'll be there at two in the afternoon."

He hung up and looked at his watch. One forty-five. There were still twenty hours left before the afternoon sorting job. He walked back to the dorm, pulled the washbasin out from under the bed, and filled it with cold water. His left foot went back into the water, and the stabbing pain came instantly into focus. He picked up the soap and slowly scrubbed along the edge of the bandage. A thin yellow foam floated up across the surface. He stared at the water, his breathing steady. Time, route, money, injury. The four variables locked together again in his mind. He did not need a miracle. He only needed to make every single step solid.