Chapter 114: Scale and Leeway

5:40 AM. The alarm hadn’t rung, but Lin Chen was already awake. The mercury column on the thermometer rested at 37.8 degrees. The low-grade fever hadn’t broken; instead, thickened by the night’s metabolism, it left a faint burning sensation in his nasal passages with every breath. He sat up. The moment his left foot touched the floor, a dull, heavy ache throbbed through his ankle, as if it had been filled with waterlogged lead. He didn’t pause. Reaching under the bed, he pulled out the povidone-iodine, gauze, and two fever-reducing pills he’d prepared the night before. He swallowed the pills with the half-bottle of cold water left over from yesterday, then unwrapped the old bandage. The exudate around the edges of the wound had already scabbed over, but the center remained red and swollen, yielding a slight fluctuance to the touch. Dipping a cotton swab in the iodine, he disinfected the area in slow, steady circles, working from the center outward. The sharp, pungent smell of the antiseptic spread through the cramped dorm room, mingling with the damp, musty odor of old bedding. He rewrapped the gauze, tied it off, and put on his shoes. He laced the left shoe to its loosest notch to leave room for the swelling, while tightening the right to ensure it wouldn’t slip when he exerted force.

Exactly six o'clock. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and locked the door. The sound-activated light in the hallway was broken; only the green exit sign cast a faint glow. He kept a hand on the wall as he went downstairs, deliberately lightening his steps to avoid the window of the homeroom teacher’s office on the third floor. The wind in town was biting, carrying the damp chill of early winter, scraping against his face like sandpaper. He hunched his shoulders, zipped his school uniform all the way up, and shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingertips stiff with cold.

The walk from the dormitory to the town bus station normally took eighteen minutes. Today, his left foot couldn't bear the weight. He shifted his entire center of gravity onto his right leg and a makeshift wooden stick, shortening his stride and lengthening the time. He stared at his watch: 6:12, 6:25, 6:38. His breathing grew ragged, the dry ache in his throat sharpening as his body temperature rose. He couldn't stop. Stopping would lower his body temperature, but his muscles would stiffen and his cadence would grow more erratic. He could only maintain a constant, inefficient but unbroken rhythm. The gears in his mind turned: Cadence: 72 steps per minute. One-way time: approximately 22 minutes. Margin of error: ±3 minutes. Acceptable.

6:50. The bus station’s iron gate had just been pulled open a crack. Driver Wang was warming up the engine inside the vehicle, white vapor puffing from the exhaust pipe. Lin Chen approached the ticket window and handed over a crumpled fifty-cent bill and a student ID. “To the county town.” The ticket seller inside didn’t even look up, tore off a stiff paper ticket, and handed back thirty cents in change. He tucked the ticket and the thirty cents into his inner pocket, pressing it against his chest. The lingering warmth of his body softened the bill, making it feel like a miniature heat patch.

7:30 AM. The minibus pulled out of the town entrance right on schedule. Inside the carriage, only three early market-goers sat scattered about, the air thick with the mingled scents of diesel and damp wool sweaters. Lin Chen occupied the window seat in the very last row, his schoolbag cradled against his chest. He kept his left foot flat against the edge of the aisle to brace against the jolts and avoid being crushed. Outside the window, the scenery began to slide backward: withered yellow rice paddies, pale gray utility poles, and the occasional early-shift bicycle flashing past. He closed his eyes and ran through the admissions office procedure in his head. Take a number, queue up, verify documents, submit forms, get the stamp, collect the receipt. He calculated the standard time for each step, anticipated possible delays, and mapped out contingency plans. The figures from his ledger automatically arranged themselves in his mind: Bus fare 2.0, medicine 0.0 (self-supplied), photocopy reserve 0.5, remaining cash 0.8. The leeway was a mere eighty cents. If the admissions office demanded any supplementary materials or required extra forms to be printed, those eighty cents would be his lifeline. He could not afford a single mistake. A mistake meant a broken process. A broken process meant the deferred exam would be voided. A voided deferred exam meant a zero on the first mock exam. A zero meant his verification eligibility for the Provincial Institute of Technology would be invalidated along with it. The causal chain was airtight, leaving not a single crack for luck to slip through.

8:05. The bus stops at the county’s old station. Lin Chen steps out, stumbling slightly as his left foot hits the ground, his right hand quickly bracing against the door frame. He steadies himself, adjusting his breathing. The Admissions Office is on the first floor of the Education Bureau building, a twelve-minute walk from the station. He walks along the sidewalk, avoiding puddles. At 8:20, he pushes open the Education Bureau’s glass doors. Seven or eight people are already lined up in the lobby, mostly parents, clutching thick document folders and speaking in hushed tones. Lin Chen approaches the queue machine and presses “Supplementary Materials/Verification.” The machine spits out a thermal slip: A014. Thirteen people ahead of him.

He found a plastic chair in the corner and sat down, resting his backpack on his lap. His left foot began to go numb, a throbbing ache creeping up his calf. He slipped off his shoe, propped his foot on an empty chair beside him, and covered it with the hem of his school uniform. The hall was well-heated, but the warm air didn’t reach the corner. He pulled out a ledger and a pen, and wrote on a blank page: 08:20, arrived at Admissions Office. Queue number 14. Estimated wait: 45 minutes. Temperature: 37.9. Left foot swelling worsening. The pen tip paused. He crossed out “Estimated wait: 45 minutes” and replaced it with “Fluctuates based on window processing speed; reserve a 20-minute buffer.” He didn’t need comfort. He only needed parameters.

9:10. The queue screen jumped to A012. Lin Chen stood up, slipped his shoe back on, and pulled the laces tight. By the time he reached Window 14, a female clerk wearing reading glasses was sitting inside, flipping through a file.

“Documents.” She didn’t look up, just held out her hand.

Lin Chen handed over the prepared document folder. Inside were the application for exam deferral, a photocopy of the interview notice from the Provincial Institute of Technology, the original design statement (bearing the red seal of the Academic Affairs Office), and his transcript. The clerk checked them one by one, her movements mechanical yet meticulous. When she turned to the design statement page, her fingers paused.

“The seal is stamped, but the character for ‘month’ in the date field is missing a stroke.” She pushed up her glasses and looked up at him. “The admissions office requires complete impressions for archiving. If this is submitted, the provincial review might reject it.”

Lin Chen’s heart skipped a beat. When he had restamped it a second time last night, he had confirmed the edges were crisp. But the paper fibers absorbed the ink unevenly, and under certain angles, the dried seal paste did indeed reveal minute imperfections. He couldn’t argue. Arguing would only waste time.

“Teacher, could I get it restamped? Or I could make a fresh photocopy, and after you verify the original on-site, you could stamp the admissions office’s acceptance seal on the copy?” His voice was low, his pace steady.

The clerk glanced at him, her gaze sweeping over his pale face and the fine sweat on his forehead. “Did you bring the original?”

“Yes.”

“Go to the photocopier over there and make a copy. One yuan. Once it’s stamped with the acceptance seal, you take the original back for your records. We’ll keep the copy on file.” She handed him an acceptance form. “Sign here.”

Lin Chen took the form and signed it. He walked to the self-service photocopier at the end of the corridor. The coin slot required a one-yuan coin. He patted down all his pockets, finding only three one-jiao notes and one five-jiao note. No coins. He went to the service desk nearby and exchanged the six jiao in bills for a one-yuan coin. He had two jiao left.

The photocopier warmed up and printed. He picked up the copy and walked back to the window. The clerk checked it, found everything in order, picked up a long blue stamp reading “Accepted,” and pressed it firmly onto the bottom right corner of the copy. She handed it back to him. “Pick up your deferred exam admission ticket before nine a.m. on Wednesday. If you miss the deadline, it will be treated as an absence.”

"Thank you, Teacher." Lin Chen took the documents, turned, and left.

9:40. He stepped out of the Education Bureau building. A cold gust hit him, instantly chilling the sweat on his forehead. His body temperature seemed to have dropped slightly, but the numbness in his left foot had already crept up to his knee. Leaning against the wall, he fished his ledger out of his backpack. 09:40, materials filed. Balance: 0.2 yuan. Deferred exam process closed. He snapped the ledger shut and took a deep breath.

Next stop: back to school. The first mock exam was on Wednesday morning, and today was Monday. He had two days left to review, but both his stamina and funds were nearing the red line. He had to make it back to school before noon; he couldn't miss the afternoon review session for the comprehensive science exam. Missing one of Old Chen's classes meant a break in the learning curve.

He headed toward the bus stop to catch the return ride. Just as he reached the signpost, the Nokia in his pocket vibrated. He pulled it out. The screen read "Old Chen".

He pressed the answer button and held the phone to his ear.

"Lin Chen, where are you?" Old Chen's voice came through the static, accompanied by the crisp tap of chalk against a blackboard in the background.

"At the county admissions office. Just finished handing in the materials."

"Once you're done, hurry back. The afternoon review has been moved to tomorrow morning." Old Chen paused, a barely perceptible seriousness creeping into his tone. "The academic affairs office just sent out a notice. The venue for Wednesday's first mock exam has been temporarily changed. You've been assigned to the fourth floor of Building Seven. No heating, steep stairs. Also, the answer sheet format for the comprehensive science paper has changed; the bubble-filling area has been reduced by half a centimeter. Come to my office before evening self-study to pick up the new sample paper. Remember, don't be late."

The call ended.

Lin Chen stood beneath the signpost, his fingers slowly tightening. Fourth floor of Building Seven, no heating, steep stairs. The bubble-filling area on the answer sheet reduced by half a centimeter. This meant his grip and shading pressure would need to be recalibrated. For him, who wrote with his left hand and filled bubbles with his right, a half-centimeter margin of error, stretched across a three-hour comprehensive science exam, could be magnified into dozens of misjudged multiple-choice questions. No heating in the exam hall meant the cold would stiffen his fingers and dull his reflexes. Steep stairs meant the pre-exam climb would drain extra stamina, potentially triggering spasms in his left foot.

He looked down at his watch. 10:05. The return minibus departed at 11:00. He had an hour left.

He walked over to the newsstand beside the bus stop, spending twenty cents on a county map and the cheapest pencil he could find. On the back of the map, he redrew his timeline. He compressed "return to school - lunch break - self-study - collect sample paper - adapt to answer sheet" into a four-hour window. His left foot injury, fluctuating body temperature, and depleted funds were all converted into executable parameters. He needed to break down the question types of the new sample paper on the ride back; soak his foot in hot water during lunch to relieve muscle stiffness; get the sample paper from Old Chen before evening self-study, and use the pencil on scrap paper to simulate shading pressure, finding the optimal pen angle within the half-centimeter tolerance.

The wind grew colder. He zipped his school uniform tight and shoved the ledger back to the bottom of his backpack.

The bus hadn't arrived yet. He stood where he was and began silently reciting comprehensive science formulas in his head. Every variable had to be nailed to the scale. His leeway was down to twenty cents, his temperature still fluctuating, the exam rules already changed. But he knew the road wasn't cut off yet. As long as the scale remained, he could keep moving forward.