Chapter 116: Half a Centimeter of Tolerance

At six-twenty in the morning, the sky still had not fully brightened. The temperature in the dorm had already dropped below freezing. Lin Chen opened his eyes and watched the white mist of his breath scatter quickly into the air. He did not move at once. Instead, he slid his right hand under the quilt and felt for his left ankle. The skin was icy cold. The swelling had not gone down, and the numbness had settled into a dull, heavy boundary. He tried moving his toes; only the big toe bent a little. The low fever left a faint pressure throbbing at his temples. He threw back the quilt, sat up, and put both feet on the concrete floor, hard with cold. When his left foot touched down, there was no pain, only the floating unsteadiness that came from his shifted center of gravity. Bracing himself on the bedframe, he stood and distributed his weight evenly between his right leg and the ball of his left foot.

The pipe over the washbasin was frozen solid. He twisted the tap and only two drops of icy water fell. He dipped a towel in the cold water, wrung it out, and wiped his face and hands. The cold tightened his skin, cutting away some of the haze brought on by the fever. He opened his ledger and wrote in a blank space: 06:25, Tuesday. Temperature unmeasured, low fever continues. Left foot mobility limited. Balance: 0.2 yuan. Today's goals: make soles slip-resistant; finalize tolerance shading; field-test Stairwell No. 7.

At six-thirty he slung on his schoolbag and left. The corridor was empty, filled only with the whistle of wind through broken windows. He walked along the edge of the athletic field, avoiding the frozen puddles. The repair shop sat at the corner of the back street behind the school, its rolling shutter half open. The owner was already seated on a low stool, sanding a scrap of iron in his hand. Lin Chen walked over, pulled the length of old bicycle inner tube and the half-roll of adhesive tape from his schoolbag, and set them on the workbench.

"Uncle Chen, can I borrow some coarse sandpaper? Half a sheet is enough."

The owner looked up at him, then at the slight limp in his left foot, and asked no questions. He turned, took out a sheet of eighty-grit sandpaper from a drawer, cut off a palm-sized piece, and handed it over. "Two mao."

Lin Chen placed his last two ten-fen coins on the table. They struck the metal top with a crisp sound. Taking the sandpaper, he went back to the dorm and shut the door. He flipped his old canvas shoes over and rubbed the soles hard with the sandpaper along the grooves at the ball and heel. Black rubber dust fell in soft showers. The smooth bottoms grew rough with gritty texture. He cut the inner tube into strips and wrapped them above his ankle to brace the swollen joint. When he pulled too tight, the returning blood darkened his toes purple-red. He loosened it by half a turn and left some margin. Slip resistance and support—he could only settle for a compromise.

At seven-forty, morning self-study began. The classroom smelled of coal smoke and paper gone stiff with cold. Lin Chen sat by the window and spread a sample answer sheet on the desk. The room temperature was below five degrees Celsius; the joints in his fingers were stiff. He rubbed his hands until his skin reddened before picking up the pencil. Thirty degrees. Light touch. Two taps. Lift. Inside the box remained an even patch of gray. No spillover. He repeated it. Twenty times. Fifty. One hundred. His wrist began to ache, and pale indentations appeared where the pencil pressed into his fingertips. He paused, tucked his left hand into his sleeve for warmth, and kept going with his right. With the fill-in area narrowed, the margin for error had been compressed to millimeters. In the overlap of cold and trembling hands, he had to reduce the mistake rate to zero.

At eight-thirty, morning reading ended. He closed the sample sheet and got up for Building No. 7. The stairwell was made of precast concrete slabs, and sure enough there was a transverse crack across the middle, about two fingers wide. With one hand on the wall, he began to climb. First step, right foot bearing weight. Second, the ball of the left foot touching down as his center shifted forward. Third, the right foot catching up. At the cracked steps, the chipped edge forced him to lift his foot an extra two centimeters to clear it. By the second floor, his breathing had grown heavier. On the third, the edge of the tape around his ankle rubbed the skin and left a trace of dampness. On the fourth, he stopped and leaned against the wall, panting. From the first floor to the fourth, it had taken four minutes and twelve seconds. Faster than his projected eight minutes, but his heart rate had already shot up to one hundred and ten. He took out his Nokia and recorded the time. 08:42, Building No. 7 field test. Four minutes twelve seconds to climb four floors. Crack requires 2 cm foot lift. Heart rate high.

At noon the lunch window in the canteen had a long line. Lin Chen did not go. He took half a compressed biscuit from his bag, broke it into pieces, and swallowed it dry. Washed down with cold water, it gave his stomach something to hold. He unfolded the county transport timetable—the one printed on the back of the map he had bought yesterday from the newsstand. On Wednesday morning, the earliest minibus from the county town to the township left at seven-forty, the next at eight-twenty, then another at nine. The verification window at Provincial Polytechnic opened at eight-thirty and closed at nine. If he took the eight-twenty bus, he would not reach the education bureau until eight-fifty, leaving only ten minutes for verification. Queueing, filling forms, stamping papers—ten minutes was not enough. If he took the seven-forty bus, he would arrive at eight-twenty, before the window opened. He would have to wait ten minutes outside the bureau. But the seven-forty bus took fifty minutes from the township to the county town. He would have to be on board by six-fifty. At six-fifty it would still be dark, the dirt road glazed with frost. Whether the bus left on time would depend on the driver and the road conditions.

He stared at the timetable, fingers tapping lightly on the paper. Too many variables. He could not gamble. He needed to confirm one thing: the actual departure time of that Wednesday morning minibus. The timetable was dead. The driver was alive.

At two in the afternoon, there was a review lecture for the science exam. Old Chen stood at the podium, his chalk scraping across the blackboard with a harsh sound. Lin Chen sat in the last row, left hand pressed beneath the desk while his right sketched circuit diagrams on scratch paper. The low fever blurred his vision now and then; he blinked and forced it back into focus. His notebook of mistakes lay open, each lost point labeled with a "corrective parameter." He did not need endless drills. He only needed to seal the leaks. Outside, the sky darkened under a low lid of cloud. Wind pushed through the cracks in the windows, carrying damp cold with it. Snow was coming.

At seven in the evening, evening self-study. The classroom held nothing but the sound of pages turning and pen tips moving across paper. Lin Chen closed his exercise book, packed the sample sheet and pencil into his bag, and went to the washroom. The tap was still dripping. He caught half a basin of cold water, soaked a towel, and laid it over his left ankle. The water was knife-cold. He clenched his teeth and made no sound. When the towel lost its chill, he changed it once. Then he propped his foot up against the bed board. He took out his Nokia; the screen lit in a ghostly blue. He opened the contacts, found the repair shop owner's number, and dialed.

"Uncle Chen, that minibus to the county town tomorrow morning at six-forty from the township station—is Old Zhao still driving it?"

On the other end came the click of a lighter, then a cough. "Old Zhao took Wednesday off. His nephew's driving instead. New vehicle, low chassis, slow on dirt roads. Why are you asking?"

"Nothing. Thanks." Lin Chen hung up. His fingers tightened slightly. A different driver. A new vehicle. Low chassis. Slow on dirt roads. That meant the seven-forty bus might not actually leave until eight. It would reach the county town at eight-fifty. The verification window opened at eight-thirty and closed at nine. He would have only forty minutes. Queueing, verification, the stamp, the return trip, the bus, the stairs. Time had been compressed to the limit. Any delay in any link would break the chain.

He sat up, pulled out his ledger, and opened to a blank page. He wrote: Plan D: Give up on the early bus. Take the six-thirty farm tricycle instead. Driver: Old Li from the east end of town, usually hauls vegetables into the county. Departs at 6:20. Fare: 1.5 yuan. The pencil point paused. One and a half yuan. He had only two mao. A gap of 1.3 yuan. He could not conjure money out of thin air. He had to find an alternative. Or move the verification earlier. The education bureau's early-shift guard usually opened the gate at seven. If he could slip his materials into the guardroom in advance and ask the guard to hand them over, maybe he could avoid the line at the window. But the guard did not know him. The papers might be treated as trash and thrown away. Too much risk.

He closed the ledger and lay down. His breathing slowly steadied. His left foot was still numb, but the gears in his mind had already meshed. Wednesday's scale had to be recalibrated. He took out the two-mao pencil and turned it lightly in the dark. Thirty degrees. Light touch. Two taps. Lift. The muscle memory formed at his fingertips. Outside the window, wind passed over the dry branches with a faint rasping sound. Like a pencil moving across an answer sheet—light, but irreversible.

Tomorrow at dawn, he would have to go to the east end of town and find Old Li. The 1.3-yuan fare shortfall could only be covered by trading in old books at the scrap station. He closed his eyes and rehearsed the route in his head. Every variable had to be nailed to its proper mark. The margin left was only two mao, his temperature still fluctuated, and the rules of the examination hall had already changed. But he knew the road had not yet been cut off. As long as the scale still existed, he could keep moving forward.