Chapter 117: Early Frost and Gradations

At five-thirty in the morning, the alarm did not ring. Lin Chen woke from the cold. Wind leaked through the gap in the dorm window, scraping along his cheekbones like the dull edge of a blade. He opened his eyes and stared at the grain on the underside of the top bunk. His breath gathered into white mist in the freezing air. His left foot still had no feeling in it; only the edge of the tape around his ankle tugged stiffly at the skin. He sat up slowly, moving as lightly as he could so he would not wake the student in the next bed. In the dark he pulled on his padded trousers, then lifted yesterday's shoe sole—freshly roughened with sandpaper—into the faint light seeping through the window to inspect it. The gritty texture was still there. He stuffed two layers of old newspaper into the shoe. When he stepped down, the pressure against the ball of his foot felt hard and punishing, but the added friction would keep him from slipping.

The shortfall in his ledger was 1.3 yuan. Old Zhao at the scrap station had bought his last bundle of old newspapers yesterday, and there was no guarantee he would even open today. Lin Chen pulled the stack of completed practice papers from his schoolbag and tied them tightly with hemp string. It was the hardest currency he had left. At six sharp, he pushed open the dorm door. The motion-sensor light at the end of the corridor did not come on, and he felt his way downstairs in the dark. A white crust of frost covered the dirt road outside; every step broke it with a brittle crackle. The air was sharp enough to sting his lungs, and the white vapor of his breath scattered at once.

Old Li at the east end of town usually started his run at six-twenty. By the time Lin Chen reached the old locust tree at the village entrance, the sky had only just begun to pale. The three-wheeler was already parked by the roadside. The cargo bed was piled chest-high with cabbages under a torn sheet of oilcloth. Old Li was squatting beside the vehicle smoking, the ember glowing and fading in the dark.

"Uncle Li." Lin Chen walked over and held out the bundle of test papers tied with string. "Will you take these? Count them against the fare—1.3 yuan."

Old Li pinched out the cigarette and took the bundle, weighing it in his hand. "Practice exams?" He flipped through two pages. "This paper's brittle. Doesn't pulp well." Then he looked up at Lin Chen. "Going into the county?"

"Mm. Wednesday morning."

"1.3 isn't enough." Old Li tossed the bundle back into the cargo bed. "Diesel's gone up hard lately. Two yuan. Not a fen less."

Lin Chen did not argue. He took out his Nokia and checked the time. 6:18. He had twelve minutes. If he went back into town now to look for Old Zhao, the round trip would take at least forty minutes. He would miss the 7:40 minibus, and he would miss Old Li's ride too. He had to accept the two-yuan price. But he only had two mao.

"I'll pay two mao now." He took two one-mao notes from his pocket and laid them on the edge of the cargo bed. "For the rest—on Friday after evening study, I'll come weed your vegetable plot. Count that as 1.8. Would that do?"

Old Li stared at him for several seconds. The winter wind stirred the dead leaves along the ground. Without a word, Old Li tucked the cigarette pack back into his pocket and slapped the side of the cargo bed. "Get on. And don't rub mud onto the cabbages."

The three-wheeler rattled onto the dirt road. Each jolt sent the numbness in Lin Chen's left foot crawling farther up his calf. Seated on the edge of the bed, he gripped the oilcloth with both hands and rose and fell with the motion. He closed his eyes and ran through the sequence in his head. First the photo studio in town. The cheapest one-inch ID package cost 2.5 yuan, but if he could get only the negative, he could cut the photos himself. Or he could use the old dot-matrix printer in the school computer room to print a black-and-white ID photo. At the copy shop, the key pages were one mao each. He needed copies of his ID card, proof of enrollment, and the supplemental exam score report. Four pages total. Four mao. Add the two-yuan fare, and the total came to 2.4 yuan. He had two mao. The gap was 2.2.

By the time the tricycle reached town, daylight had only just settled in. Lin Chen jumped down, and when his left foot touched the ground he stumbled. He caught himself at once with his right hand against a wall and steadied his weight. He went first to the copy shop beside the town middle school. The owner had not opened yet. Lin Chen stood outside the shutter and waited. At seven o'clock the shutter rolled up. He handed over his documents. "ID card, front and back, enrollment form, score sheet. Two copies of each."

"One yuan two," the owner said without looking up.

Lin Chen held out the two mao. "Uncle, I'll pay two mao first. I'll bring the rest at noon. I need the papers urgently—please make them now."

The owner glanced up at him but did not take the money. "Rules are rules. No cash, no copying. There are other people waiting behind you."

Lin Chen's fingers tightened slightly. He stepped back and gave way. He could not waste time here. He turned and headed for the town photo studio. A sign on the glass door read: ONE-INCH PHOTOS 2.5 YUAN, READY WHILE YOU WAIT. He pushed the door open. The room smelled sharply of developing fluid. A woman in reading glasses sat behind the counter.

"Auntie, one-inch photos. If I only take the negative and cut them myself, could you do 1.5?"

She looked at him over the tops of her glasses. "I don't sell negatives by themselves. Two and a half for the full set. If it's too expensive, go somewhere else."

Lin Chen said nothing. He took out his Nokia and noted the time. 7:42. The photo studio and the copy shop were both dead ends. He needed cash. Or else some point of credit strong enough to let him take the materials first and pay later. He thought of Old Chen, his homeroom teacher. There was a printer in Old Chen's office, and a paper cutter too. If he could get the deferred-exam application signed, and borrow the printer while he was there, he could save the copying fee. But only if Old Chen was willing to sign.

At 7:50, Lin Chen arrived at the gate of County No. 1 High School. The guard knew him and waved him through. He walked along the edge of the athletic field, his breathing steady. By now his left foot had become a purely mechanical part. Every step required his right leg and his core to drag it forward by force. He pushed open the door to the senior-year office. Only Old Chen was inside, marking last night's comprehensive science papers. The sound of red pen against paper was very soft.

"Teacher Chen." Lin Chen stood in the doorway, his voice low.

Old Chen looked up and pushed his glasses higher. "Lin Chen? Aren't you supposed to be at morning reading?"

"The deferred-exam application." Lin Chen stepped forward and put the completed form and his handwritten personal statement on the desk. The form was blank except for the space waiting for a signature. Beside it lay the draft sheets for the four key documents, neatly written, the parameters precise.

Old Chen set down his red pen and picked up the form. His gaze rested for several seconds on the lines reading Provincial Polytechnic electronic information major verification and County First Mock Exam deferral. He did not reach for a pen at once.

"What's wrong with your foot?" Old Chen asked.

"An old injury. It won't affect my walking," Lin Chen answered.

"Won't affect your walking?" Old Chen looked at the stiffness in his stance but did not expose the lie. "The first mock exam starts at nine on Wednesday morning. Provincial Polytechnic's verification closes at nine too. One hundred twenty kilometers apart. Have you done the time calculation?"

"I have." Lin Chen pulled out his ledger, opened to a blank page, and pushed it across the desk. "Building No. 7, fourth floor: four minutes twelve seconds to climb. Exam room has no heat, so I need ten minutes in advance to adapt. Three minutes reserved for filling in the answer sheet. If the exam starts at nine, I have to be seated by 8:45. The verification window opens at 8:30 and closes at nine. If I take the 6:30 farm tricycle, I reach the education bureau at 7:20. Queueing, verification, stamp—forty minutes. I turn back at 8:10, catch the 8:20 minibus back to town, and can reach the exam room before nine. Tolerance for error: twelve minutes."

Old Chen looked at the page, dense with gradations and numbers—times, routes, margins of error. No emotion, only logic. He was silent for a long time. The heater in the office gave off a faint hissing sound.

"You've filled it in very carefully," Old Chen said at last, his voice low. "But there's one thing you didn't write down."

Lin Chen looked at him.

"If I sign this, what proof do you have that you can actually make it back that day?" Old Chen pushed the form halfway back. "A deferred exam isn't a joke. If you're absent, it counts as a zero. If you finish verification and then the vehicle breaks down, or the road is blocked, or your foot gives out and you can't get back, your mock-exam result is gone. What will you make that up with? These gradations?"

Lin Chen stopped breathing for an instant. He lowered his eyes to the figures in the ledger. Twelve minutes of tolerance. In theory. In real life, there was no such thing as a theoretical value. Only variables.

"I've prepared two backup routes," Lin Chen said, his voice level. "If the minibus runs late, I'll go to the national highway and flag down a freight truck. If the highway is blocked, I'll walk to the town entrance and catch Old Li's return run. If my foot gives out completely, I'll hand the verification materials to the education bureau gate guard in advance, leave my contact number, and ask the guard to turn them in for me. If the number is called and I'm not there, the verification is void, but the gate guard keeps a registry. As long as the documents enter the education bureau building before nine, it still counts as compliant. Your signature is the start of the procedure, not a guarantee."

Old Chen looked at him. There was neither approval nor reproach in his expression. Only scrutiny. He picked up the red pen and held it over the section marked Homeroom Teacher's Opinion. The tip hovered a millimeter above the paper.

"Lin Chen," he said. "Reality isn't an error notebook. You can calculate as precisely as you like, but you still can't stop a snowfall, a blowout, or a security guard who decides not to honor his word. You want the signature—fine. But first I want a written pledge from you."

He pulled a blank sheet of stationery from the drawer and pushed it over. "Write this down: If I do not appear in the first mock exam room by 9:05 on Wednesday morning, I will voluntarily forfeit this mock-exam score and bear all subsequent consequences myself. Sign it and leave your fingerprint."

Lin Chen took the sheet. The paper was thin, its edges a little rough. He pulled out the two-mao pencil and wrote down the pledge in neat, unaltered handwriting. When he finished, he bit the tip of his right index finger and pressed a dark red fingerprint at the bottom. In the cold air, the blood mark slowly oxidized.

Old Chen took the paper, glanced at it, and finally picked up his red pen. On the deferred-exam application, he signed his name. The pen scratched softly across the page.

"Go on," he said, handing the form back. "Just don't die on the road."

Lin Chen took the form, bowed, and turned to leave. The wind in the corridor was colder than before. At the stairwell he stopped. His left foot had lost all feeling by now; only his right leg was holding him up. He took out his Nokia, and the screen lit. 7:58. Forty-two minutes until the minibus departed. Forty-two minutes before the deadlock at the photo studio and copy shop would trap him for good.

He opened his ledger and put a check beside Signature. The next line was blank. He still had to solve the 2.2-yuan cash shortfall. Or find a road that did not require cash at all.

He looked up at the window. The clouds had sunk lower. There was moisture in the wind. It was going to snow.

He tightened his grip on the form and turned toward the stairs. First step: right foot bearing weight. Second: left forefoot touching down. Third: right foot following through. The gradations were still there. The road had not yet been cut off.