Chapter 105: Marks and Rain Lines

At 5:40 in the morning, Lin Chen opened his eyes. There was no light outside the window, only the muffled drumming of raindrops striking the tin awning, dense and even. He reached toward the edge of the bed. The canvas bag was still in place. The metal zipper pull was cold. He sat up without turning on the light and lowered his eyes to his left foot first. The edges of the bandage had already yellowed. The seeped medicine and the dampness in the air had mixed together, giving off the faintly bitter smell of iodine. He removed the old gauze. The wound was not red or swollen, but the toes still felt as though they were wrapped in a thick layer of cotton; when he pressed them, all he felt was a dull resistance. He cleaned it again with an iodine swab, moving very slowly and avoiding the scabbed places. Medicine applied, sterile gauze over it, medical tape crossed to hold it in place. The whole process took eight minutes.

He put on his rubber shoes. The laces were tied tight, but he deliberately left half a finger’s width of extra space on the left side to keep from pressing the foot. Ledger, document pouch, nineteen yuan—he packed them into the canvas bag in the same order as last night. He pulled the zipper all the way shut. When he opened the door, the hallway held only the dim yellow glow of the motion-sensor light. The sound of the rain was amplified in the empty stairwell. One hand on the wall, he went down step by step. All his weight was on his right leg. His left foot only touched down lightly, swinging in mechanical alternation like a pendulum. The ligaments in his knee tightened in the damp, and every step required him to redistribute his muscle strength.

At 6:05, he walked out of the school gate. The rain was not heavy, but it was dense. The bluestone road was soaked through, gleaming with a dark sheen. He kept close to the wall to avoid the puddles. Every step was tested first, then set down firmly. The numbness in his left foot grew worse in the damp, and the pain nerves felt as if they were being tugged by fine threads. He adjusted his breathing and fixed his attention on the streetlamp ahead. The Academic Affairs Office was eight hundred meters away. At his current speed, it would take fifteen minutes. A timeline rose automatically in his mind: arrive at 06:20, wait ten minutes, office opens at 06:30, hand in the form, verify, stamp, leave before 06:45. The margin of error could not exceed three minutes.

At 6:20, he stopped beneath the eaves below the Academic Affairs Office. He folded his umbrella and shook off the drops. The door was still shut. He glanced at his watch. The second hand moved in a steady beat. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and ran through the procedure again in his head. He did not need a miracle. He only needed every step to land solidly.

At exactly 6:30, the crisp clink of keys came from the corridor. Footsteps approached. Teacher Wang from Academic Affairs came down the hall in an overcoat, a thermos in hand. When he saw Lin Chen, he froze for a moment. “So early?”

“Morning, sir. I need the archive transfer confirmation form stamped with the official seal.” Lin Chen handed over the document pouch and drew out the form. The paper was dry, the edges perfectly flat.

Teacher Wang took it and glanced over it. “The deferred-exam results aren’t out yet. The school’s rule is that we don’t stamp these ahead of time. If you drop out of the top fifty, once the archive is transferred, we won’t be able to get it back.”

“The Provincial Admissions Office requires it to be filed by two o’clock Friday afternoon. If it’s late, it becomes void.” Lin Chen’s voice was quiet, but every word was clear. “The photocopy of the deferred score sheet and my homeroom teacher’s signature are all here. If my score doesn’t qualify, the school can withdraw the archive at any time. But the procedure has to start first. The school can issue an explanation assigning responsibility, and I will sign to confirm it personally.”

Teacher Wang looked at him for two seconds without speaking. Then he turned, unlocked the door, switched on the light, and took the official seal and the ink pad from a drawer. The pad was somewhat dry. He breathed on it once, then pressed down hard. The stamp came down, the red characters for “Academic Affairs Office, County No. 1 High School” appearing clearly in the lower right corner of the form. Teacher Wang added the date beside it, the pen scratching softly over the paper. “Take it. Until the results come out, the school will hold the archive temporarily. If you fall below the line, this form is void.”

“Understood.” Lin Chen took the form and held it up to the light to inspect the seal. The edges were intact, with no bleeding. He put it back into the document pouch and zipped it shut. “Thank you, sir.”

It was 6:42 when he stepped out of the teaching building. The rain had grown heavier. He opened his umbrella and hurried toward the county south bus station. The distance was 1.2 kilometers. He had to increase his pace. The mechanical rhythm of his left foot was beginning to lose its timing; with every step, his ankle felt as if it were being abraded by something blunt. He clenched his back teeth, lowered the umbrella against the wind blowing in his face, and kept going. His breathing grew heavier, but he did not stop.

At 6:58, the light came on at the ticket window of the bus station. He handed over twelve yuan and received a stiff paper ticket. His fingertips were wet with rain, and the edges of the ticket softened slightly. He tucked it into his ledger.

At 7:10, the coach pulled out on schedule. The roar of the diesel engine drowned out the rain. The carriage smelled of damp wool sweaters and cheap tobacco. Lin Chen sat in the second-to-last row by the window, holding the canvas bag in his arms. A layer of fog had formed on the glass, and he wiped out a small patch with his sleeve. The trees lining the national highway blurred into a wash of gray-green in the rain.

At 7:40, the bus entered the K47 construction stretch. The road grew more uneven. The body of the bus rocked from side to side, and complaints rose and fell all around him. Lin Chen’s body moved with the jolting carriage, his left foot crushed beneath the seat in front. Pain shot upward through the nerves like a mesh of electric current. He laid a hand on his knee and pressed lightly, trying to divert his attention. In his mind he recalculated the timetable: originally two hours and forty minutes; construction plus rain would likely add fifty minutes. Arrival at the provincial long-distance station should be around 10:05. Bus transfer, forty minutes reserved. Arrival at the Provincial Admissions Office before 11:00. Remaining buffer: twenty minutes.

He closed his eyes. He did not feel anxious. He was only recording. The variable had already been absorbed. Execution continued.

At 10:08, the bus pulled into the provincial capital’s long-distance station. The rain had stopped, and a crack had opened in the cloud cover, letting through a bleak white light. Lin Chen rose to his feet. The moment his left foot touched the ground, it almost gave way. He caught the back of the seat and steadied himself. Without pausing, he followed the flow of passengers off the bus.

The station announcements were noisy. He checked the route signs and found the city bus that would take him toward the Provincial Admissions Office. He dropped in two yuan. The bus was crowded, and he stood in the back corner by the rear door, protecting the canvas bag against his chest. The bus crawled through the slick streets. Red lights and green lights changed in turn, and every time the driver braked, another shock ran through his left foot. He stared out the window at the city—the high-rises, the billboards, the hurried pedestrians. The pressure of the city rushed toward him, but his attention did not waver. His world consisted only of the next stop and the document pouch in his arms.

At 11:05, the bus pulled over. He got off and looked up. The Provincial Admissions Office building stood across the street, with gray outer walls and severe glass doors. He crossed the zebra-striped crosswalk at a quick pace.

There were not many people in the lobby. The ticket machine spat out a slip: A047. He sat down on a plastic chair and waited. His left foot had already gone completely numb, like a wooden stake that no longer belonged to his body. He slipped a hand into his pocket and found the ledger. Its cover had wrinkled from the rain. He opened it and wrote on the latest page: 11:08 Arrived at Provincial Admissions Office. Waiting in line.

At 11:20, the electronic display flickered. A047 to Window 3, please.

He stood and walked to the counter. The staff member behind the glass wore black-rimmed glasses and did not even look up. “Documents.”

Lin Chen handed over the document pouch. The staff member pulled out the form and checked the ID card, admission slip, and photocopies with practiced, mechanical motions. On the last page, his finger stopped at the homeroom teacher’s signature and the official seal. “Where is the deferred-exam score?”

“It will be announced Thursday afternoon. The school has already issued a temporary holding statement.” Lin Chen handed over another sheet of paper. “This is a handwritten guarantee from my homeroom teacher. If the score does not qualify, the archive will automatically be returned.”

The staff member took it and glanced over it. A faint frown appeared between his brows. “Provincial Polytechnic requires the original documents to be fully complete for verification. A guarantee letter is not part of the standard procedure.”

“Procedure is rigid. Archive transfer is not.” Lin Chen’s voice remained level. “The Provincial Admissions Office requires filing before two o’clock Friday afternoon. It is now 11:20. Everything is complete except the score. If you refuse to accept it because the score has not been issued yet, then the responsibility for missing the deadline does not lie with the student.”

The staff member looked up at him, a trace of surprise in his eyes before the expression went flat again. He picked up the internal phone and dialed a number. “Hello, Admissions? Third-year independent enrollment archive, deferred score not out yet, school guarantee. Yes, for Provincial Polytechnic. ...All right, understood.”

After hanging up, he stamped the form with a blue seal reading “Accepted, supplementary document pending.” “Submit the original score sheet by next Wednesday. If it’s overdue, it will be returned.”

“Understood.” Lin Chen accepted the receipt. The paper was still warm. He carefully checked the serial number and the date on it. No mistakes.

He turned and walked out of the lobby. At last the sunlight pierced through the clouds and shone across the wet steps. He stood at the edge of the stairs and drew in a deep breath. The air smelled of dust and rainwater mingled together. The task was complete. The variable had been closed into the system.

He looked down at his watch. 11:35. There were still two and a half hours before two in the afternoon. He needed to eat something, restore his strength, and then head back to the bus station. His budget was nineteen yuan: twelve for the ticket, two for the city bus, five left. One bowl of plain noodles—just enough.

He started down the steps. The instant his left foot touched the ground, a sharp stab of pain suddenly pierced through the numbness. He staggered and caught the railing. Cold sweat broke out across his forehead at once. He steadied himself without turning back, simply shifting his center of gravity onto his right leg again.

Across the street, a radio was playing the noon news inside the newspaper kiosk. The female announcer’s voice carried through the glass: “...The Provincial Department of Education issued a notice today stating that, beginning this semester, all first-round mock exam scores for twelfth-grade students across the province will be entered directly into the provincial student-status system and treated as a mandatory indicator in the final review for independent enrollment. Those who do not reach the benchmark line will not have their archives transferred, and no supplementary submissions will be accepted...”

Lin Chen stopped walking.

He turned his head toward the kiosk. The radio was still going, but he could no longer make out what came after. In the scale inside his mind, a new horizontal line had suddenly appeared—one that could not be calculated.

Mandatory indicator. Benchmark line. No supplementary submissions accepted.

He took out the ledger and flipped to a blank page. The tip of his pen hovered over the paper for a long time without coming down.

The wind after the rain passed through the street, stirring up the fallen leaves on the ground. He stood where he was and listened to his own heartbeat. Once. Twice.

The scale was still there.

But the tolerance had been redefined.