Chapter 118: Gradations and the Snow Line

The draft through the corridor was harsher than before. Lin Chen folded the deferred-exam application form in half and slipped it into the pocket of his undershirt. The edge of the paper pressed against his skin, carrying a faint damp coolness from the fingerprint he had just pressed onto it. He held the stair railing as he went down. His right foot bore his weight; the ball of his left foot touched down while the heel hung in the air. With every step, his knee had to absorb another jolt of recoil. The numbness had already climbed past his ankle, creeping up along the fascia at the back of his calf. He did not look at his foot, only at the stairs. One step, two steps, three steps. He kept his breathing even.

By the time he walked out of the teaching building, the sky had gone completely dark, a leaden gray. The wind drove dry grains of snow against his face like fine sandpaper. He glanced at the Nokia screen: 8:06. There were thirty-four minutes left before the minibus at the town entrance departed. There were also thirty-four minutes left before the missing 2.2 yuan in material fees became a problem.

He followed the path behind County No. 1 High School toward the commercial street. A thin sheet of ice had formed on the road, and he deliberately avoided the reflective puddles. Every time his left foot touched down, it felt like stepping on cotton; only the vibration transmitted through the bone reminded him the joint was still there. He did not think about pain. Pain was emotion. Vibration was physics. He only recorded physics.

On the glass door of Old Li’s photo studio was a faded price list: one-inch photo, two yuan, ready while you wait. Lin Chen pushed the door open, and the hinge gave a dry scraping sound. There was only one person inside, a man in his fifties wearing a blue work coat washed pale with age, checking his watch under the red darkroom lamp.

“I need a one-inch photo.” Lin Chen stopped at the counter.

“Two yuan. Negative not included.” Old Li did not even lift his head.

Lin Chen fished sixty cents out of his trouser pocket and placed it on the glass countertop. The coins made a soft clinking sound. Only then did Old Li look up. He looked at the money, then at him. “You’re short one yuan forty. Can’t do it.”

“The tube flickered three times.” Lin Chen did not look at the money; his gaze rested on the row of old fluorescent lights above the counter. “The ballast is aging, and the starter has poor contact. I’ll fix the wiring. You give me the photo.”

Old Li narrowed his eyes. One of the lights in the shop really was flickering, and the developing machine in the darkroom often jammed paper because of unstable voltage. He studied Lin Chen for a few seconds, his gaze landing on the mud-spattered cuffs of his pants and the stiff way he stood. “You know how to do wiring?”

“Yes.” Lin Chen pulled a roll of electrical tape and a small screwdriver from the side pocket of his schoolbag. The tools had been given to him by the repair shop owner, and he had kept them ever since.

Old Li said nothing and pointed at the distribution box in the corner. Lin Chen walked over and pulled open the sheet-metal cover. The wiring inside was a mess, the insulation old and cracked. He did not need a diagram. He only needed to find the input end of the ballast and the parallel branch to the starter. Strip the wire, splice it, tape it, secure it. His movements were not fast, but every step landed exactly where it needed to. Twelve minutes. He shut the box and flipped the switch. The flickering stopped. The light steadied.

Old Li walked beneath the lamp and looked up for a long time. Then he turned and went into the darkroom, coming back out with a camera. “Stand straight. Don’t move.”

The shutter clicked sharply. For an instant, as the flash went off, Lin Chen’s pupils contracted. He closed his eyes and adjusted his breathing. Five minutes later, Old Li handed over a photo that still smelled faintly of chemicals. The edges had already been trimmed; the size was standard. Lin Chen took it and slipped it into a plastic sleeve. The sixty cents went back into his pocket untouched.

His next stop was the copy shop on the corner. Four pages of key materials, ten cents a page. He pushed open the door and handed his draft papers to the owner. The man took them and fed them into the copier. The machine roared and spat out the first page. Paper jam. The owner cursed, pulled out the tray, and cleaned the rollers. Lin Chen stood nearby, watching scraps of paper fall to the floor. He did not reach out to help. This was not his malfunction. He did not need to intervene. The second page, the third, the fourth. Smoothly done. He paid forty cents. The owner gave him twenty cents in change. He stacked the copies in order and put them into a transparent document pouch together with the photo, the application form, and his personal statement. The zipper closed with a soft sound, like a gate dropping shut.

The materials were complete. All the prerequisites in the process had been met.

He stepped out of the copy shop and sat down on the concrete steps across the street. He took off the rubber shoe on his left foot. His sock was already soaked through, the edge stained with dark yellow traces of medicine. His ankle was swollen tight and shiny, the skin stretched as if it might split. He took out a lump of snow wrapped in a clean handkerchief from his schoolbag and pressed it against the swelling. Meltwater seeped into the cloth, bitterly cold. He clenched his back teeth and made no sound. Cold could constrict blood vessels. It could hold down seepage. This was physical cooling, not treatment. He only needed it to last until Wednesday.

The snowfall intensified. The snowflakes were no longer pellets but broad clumps drifting down, melting quickly on the steps before freezing again into a thin glaze. He opened his ledger and checked off the “materials” entry. Then he turned to a blank page and recalculated the route.

Original plan: Li Laosan’s farm tricycle at 6:30. Arrive at the Education Bureau at 7:20. Forty minutes in line for verification, turn back at 8:10. Take the 8:20 minibus back to town, arrive at the exam site before 9:00. Margin for error: twelve minutes.

Now there was a new variable: snowfall. The road’s coefficient of friction would drop, reducing the farm tricycle’s speed from forty kilometers per hour to twenty-five. Arrival delayed until 7:45. The verification window opened at 8:30 and closed at 9:00. The time periods overlapped. Queue time was compressed to fifteen minutes. Margin for error: zero.

He crossed out the old data and wrote down a new set of marks: depart at 6:15, forty-five minutes earlier. Wake at 5:30. Treat the foot injury and get dressed at 5:40. Leave home at 6:00. Twelve minutes on foot to the east end of town. Once on the vehicle, the cargo bed would have no heat, requiring extra energy expenditure to maintain core temperature. After arriving at the Education Bureau, do not line up; go straight through the side door and find the guard on duty. The materials were ready. The guard’s registration would suffice. Verification complete, turn back at 8:05. Catch the 8:10 minibus. Arrive at the town entrance at 8:50. Eighteen minutes on foot to County No. 1 High School. Enter the exam room at 9:08. Eight minutes late.

Exam rule: entry permitted within fifteen minutes after the exam begins. Must be seated by 9:05. Eight minutes late—within the rule’s tolerance.

He closed the ledger. The logic loop was complete. There was no emotion, only parameters.

He put his shoe back on and tightened the laces. As he stood, his left leg wobbled once. He caught himself against the wall and steadied his center of gravity. By the time he reached the town entrance, Li Laosan’s farm tricycle had already started up. The diesel engine chugged, white vapor spraying from the exhaust pipe. Lin Chen walked over and knocked on the cab door.

“Uncle Li. Tomorrow at 6:15—can you go?”

Li Laosan leaned his head out, half a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Road’ll be slippery tomorrow. That stretch in the mountain hollow’s iced over. If we leave at 6:15, we won’t reach the county seat till 7:50. Can you still make it?”

“I can,” Lin Chen said.

Li Laosan gave him a look and asked no more. “Get on. There’s a straw mat in the back. Put something under yourself.”

Lin Chen climbed into the cargo bed. The straw mat was damp and smelled faintly of mildew. He sat down and held the document pouch in his arms. The tricycle started moving, jolting out of town. Wind poured in through the cracks of the carriage and cut across his face like knives. He closed his eyes and ran through every point of Wednesday in his mind. Climb the stairs. Fill in the answer sheet. Verification. Return trip. Hand in the paper. Nothing missing.

The Nokia vibrated once in his pocket. He pulled it out. The screen lit with a dim blue glow. A text message. Unknown number.

“Notice from the Provincial Institute of Technology Admissions Office: due to system upgrades, the material verification window on Wednesday morning will open early at 8:00 and close at 8:15. Late arrivals will not be accepted. Candidates are requested to be on time.”

Lin Chen stared at the screen. His breathing stopped for one second.

The window had moved thirty minutes earlier. The closing time had moved forty-five minutes earlier.

The original plan to turn back at 8:05 had become impossible. If the materials were not entered into the system before 8:15, the verification would be void. The deferred-exam signature would be invalid. He would miss the mock exam. The chain would break.

He opened the ledger. The tip of his pen hovered above the page. Snow landed on the paper and melted at once into watery stains. He wiped the water away and wrote down new numbers. Depart at 6:10. Arrive at the Education Bureau at 7:35. Do not look for the guard. Go straight to the line. Verification must be completed before 8:05. Return time compressed to ten minutes. Catch the passing freight truck at 7:50. Reach the town entrance at 8:20. Walk to the exam site. 9:00. Margin for error: zero.

The pen tip tore through the paper. He did not stop. He kept writing. The freight truck would not wait for anyone. He would need to be standing at the highway fork in advance. He would need to allow time for the hand signal to flag it down. He would need to calculate the driver’s braking distance. He would need to accept the probability of being refused a ride.

The tricycle swayed through the snow. The roar of the diesel engine drowned out the wind. Lin Chen tightened his grip on the pen. His knuckles whitened. The gradations were still there. The road had not yet broken off. All he had to do was compress the margin for error from twelve minutes to zero.