Chapter 119: Zero Tolerance

The jolting inside the cargo bed was harsher than he had expected. Pellets of snow struck the tin canopy overhead in a dense dry rustle. Lin Chen held the document pouch against his chest. Through two sweaters, he could still feel the chill of the plastic cover. The numbness in his left foot had spread into his calf. The muscles felt full of lead. Every lurch of the farm tricycle had to be absorbed by the knee of his right leg alone. He did not adjust his posture. Moving around would waste heat, and it would also make the oozing wound rub against his sock. He stared at the leafless trees sliding backward beyond the gap in the carriage, and in his mind there was only a single line: the timeline.

6:40. The farm tricycle turned onto the provincial road. A thin sheet of ice had formed on the surface, and Li Laosan shifted into third gear and kept the speed down to twenty. White smoke from the exhaust was torn apart by the wind and vanished at once into the gray-white sky. Lin Chen took out his Nokia. The backlight stabbed at his eyes. 6:42. Eight kilometers remained to the Education Bureau. At the current speed, they would arrive at 7:05. The verification window opened at 8:00 sharp. He had a buffer of thirty-five minutes. But that was only a theoretical buffer. In reality, the county’s morning traffic, the snow at the bureau gate, the flow of people in line—all of it would eat into that margin.

He put the phone back in his pocket. Closing his eyes, he walked through the process once more in the dark. Get down. Brush off the snow. Queue up. Submit the papers. Verify the ID card. Stamp. System entry. Receipt. Turn back. He broke every motion down into seconds. He did not need a miracle. He only needed every step not to run over time.

7:03. The tricycle stopped beneath the plane trees outside the side gate of the Education Bureau. Li Laosan left the engine running and turned to him. “We’re here. Snow’s only getting heavier. The roads’ll be closed by afternoon. Once you’ve finished, hurry back. Don’t get delayed.” Lin Chen nodded and pushed open the sideboard of the cargo bed. The moment his foot touched the ground, a hollow, blunted pain came from his left ankle, as if he were stepping on cotton, or on broken glass. He clenched his teeth, shifted his weight onto his right foot, and moved toward the gate one step at a time.

Frost had formed on the guardroom window. The duty guard, bundled in a military coat, was holding an enamel mug and blowing on the steam. Lin Chen knocked on the glass. The guard slid it open a crack, and cold air rushed in. “For verification?” he asked. Lin Chen handed over the document pouch and application form. The guard glanced at them and pointed toward the office building in the courtyard. “Admissions office, first floor. Queue up yourself. Work doesn’t start till eight. Even if you go now, you’ll just be waiting.”

Lin Chen did not leave. Under the eaves, he arranged the documents in the pouch in order. One-inch photo, photocopies, personal statement, deferred-exam application, homeroom teacher’s signature page. He pulled out his admission ticket and placed it on top. Snow settled on his shoulders and quickly melted into wet patches. He looked at the steps of the office building. One step, two, three. Ice had formed on them. He pulled off the glove on his right hand and rubbed the edge of a step with his palm until he scraped up a small rough patch for traction. Then he went up: right foot first, the forepart of the left foot touching down lightly, then following after. Again. Do not slip. Do not fall. If he fell, the documents would be dirtied. It would cost time.

7:45. The lights came on in the office building on the first floor. The iron gate was pulled open, and several staff members in dark coats came out carrying thermoses and briefcases. Lin Chen stood at the end of the line. There were four candidates ahead of him, each with a parent. The parents murmured complaints about the weather, the system, the quotas. Lin Chen said nothing. He watched the clock on the wall. 7:52. 7:55. 7:58.

8:00 sharp. The window opened. A staff member sat down and turned on the computer. The fan in the tower gave off a low, muffled hum. Lin Chen handed over his papers. The staff member took them and began to flip through them. His fingers were red with cold, and he turned the pages slowly. “The background color on this one-inch photo is wrong,” he said without looking up. “Provincial Institute of Technology requires a blue background. Yours is white.”

For the space of one breath, Lin Chen stopped breathing. He lowered his eyes to the photo. It was true: white background. The owner of the photo shop had said both white and blue would do, that the system could convert it automatically. But a rule was a rule. He took out his ledger. Inside it were two dimes. Not enough for a new photo. He lifted his head. “Teacher, the regulation says only ‘recent bareheaded identification photo.’ It doesn’t specify the background color. The system verifies only the face and the ID number. The background won’t affect the verification.”

The staff member’s hand stopped. He looked up at him, fatigue and impatience in his eyes. “The system’s been upgraded. The new interface only recognizes blue backgrounds. White won’t upload. Go back, retake it, and come again this afternoon.”

Afternoon. The verification window was open only in the morning. By afternoon it would be void. Lin Chen’s fingertips dug into his palm. The pain cleared his head. He could not argue. Arguing would cost time, and it would sharpen the conflict. What he needed was a solution. He opened the document pouch and pulled out his personal statement. On the blank space at the end of the last page, he wrote quickly in pencil:

“Due to snowfall and blocked roads, I am unable to retake the photo. Attached are a photocopy of my ID card and proof of student status. Facial features match the system database. Please approve through manual verification. Candidate: Lin Chen. Date: 199X/X/X.”

He tucked the note behind the photograph and handed it over again. “Teacher, is there a manual channel? I have a mock exam at nine. If I miss it, it will be graded as zero. The materials are complete. Only the background color is wrong. Please make an exception.”

The staff member looked at him. Five seconds of silence. Outside the window, the snow was falling more thickly. The computer’s blue glow reflected on the man’s face. “Manual verification needs the supervisor’s signature. The supervisor hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I’ll wait,” Lin Chen said.

He stepped back against the wall and stood straight. His left foot had already lost all sensation; he could stay upright only by leaning on the wall and his right leg. He watched the clock. 8:07. 8:12. 8:18. Footsteps sounded one after another in the corridor. A middle-aged man in glasses came in with a ring of keys in his hand. The staff member went up to him and said a few words in a low voice. The man walked over, glanced at the papers, then at Lin Chen’s foot. Dark wetness had already seeped through the side of the shoe; it was impossible to tell whether it was melted snow or medicinal runoff.

“For Provincial Institute of Technology?” the man asked.

Lin Chen nodded.

“The deferred-exam application approved?”

“It was approved. Signed by my homeroom teacher.” Lin Chen handed over the application form.

The man took it, looked at the red-ink signature, then at the clock on the wall. “8:20. The window has twenty-five minutes left. We can do manual verification, but the system entry will take time. Are you sure you can make it back?”

“I can,” Lin Chen said.

The man asked nothing more. He picked up the blue ink pad from the desk and stamped the application form. Then he turned to the computer and typed in the ID number by hand. The progress bar crept upward. Ten percent. Thirty. Sixty. Lin Chen stared at the screen. He kept his breathing shallow. The muscles in his left calf had begun to twitch faintly out of control. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pressed hard against his knee.

8:31. The system gave a soft beep. Verification passed. The receipt slid out of the printer. The middle-aged man handed it to him. “Take it. Don’t be late.”

Lin Chen took the receipt and bowed. He turned, went downstairs. The ice on the steps was even slicker now. He quickened his pace, his right foot driving downward, his left dragging after. The pain had already gone numb. All that remained was the mechanical alternation. He rushed out through the gate and ran to the side of the provincial road. There was no vehicle in the snow, only wheel tracks. He stood by the roadside and raised his right hand. His fingers were purple with cold.

The passing freight truck from 7:50 had not come. 8:35. The highway lay empty. The wind cut across his face like a blade. He opened his ledger and crossed out the item marked “verification.” The next item: return trip. Tolerance: minus twenty minutes. He had to move. Walk to the town entrance and catch Li Laosan’s return vehicle. Or stop any vehicle willing to pull over.

He stepped forward. First step. Second. Third. The snow reached above his ankles. His socks were soaked through, clinging to his skin with a bitter cold. He did not think about the cold. He thought only about distance. Twelve kilometers. At his present pace, four kilometers an hour. Three hours needed. He would never make the nine o’clock exam. He had to go faster. He increased his pace. His breathing grew rough. White vapor rolled in front of him. Inside the shoe, the wound on his left foot rubbed raw, seepage mixing with snowmelt, wrapping his ankle in a sticky wetness. He bit down on his lower lip and tasted blood.

8:45. A blue Jiefang truck appeared in the side mirror, slowed, and stopped at the roadside. The driver leaned his head out. “Where to?”

“County No. 1 High School,” Lin Chen said.

The driver looked at the snow caked over him and his soaked shoes. “Get in. I’m going that way. Don’t dirty the seat cover.”

Lin Chen climbed into the passenger seat. The cab smelled of tobacco and engine oil. The driver passed him an old towel. “Dry yourself off. That foot of yours—frostbite?”

Lin Chen took the towel and said nothing. He fixed his eyes on the snowy landscape beyond the windshield. The truck was doing sixty. The distance shrank. He took out his Nokia. 8:52. Eight minutes until nine.

8:58. The truck turned into the town entrance. Lin Chen pushed open the door and jumped down. The moment his foot hit the ground, a violent stabbing pain shot from his ankle straight into his head. He stumbled once and caught himself on the door. The driver cursed, hit the gas, and drove off. Lin Chen turned and ran toward County No. 1 High School. Not walked—ran. His right foot drove him forward; his left dragged after. Every step was like landing on knife points. But he did not stop. Wind poured into his lungs as if he were swallowing crushed ice.

9:03. The iron gate of County No. 1 High School came into view. The guard had already locked the side gate. The main gate was still open, and several late students were running inside. Lin Chen rushed over and pulled out his admission ticket. The guard glanced at it and let him pass. He ran up the steps. Through the corridor. Into the exam room on the third floor.

9:05. The invigilator was handing out the papers. Lin Chen reached the empty seat in the last row and sat down. He pulled out the chair, shoved the document pouch into the desk, took out his black pen, and filled in the admission-ticket number. His hand was shaking. Not from the cold. It was the nervous tremor that came after total physical exhaustion. He took three deep breaths. Slowly, his heartbeat steadied.

9:10. The bell rang to begin the test. The sound of papers being turned over spread through the classroom. Lin Chen lowered his head. First question: functions and limits. He tightened his grip on the pen. The point touched the paper. The ink flowed smoothly. He wrote down the first formula. Under the desk, his left foot twitched faintly. He ignored it. He looked only at the questions. Only at the arithmetic. Only at the answers.

Time passed second by second. Outside the window, the snow had stopped. Sunlight leaked through breaks in the clouds and fell across the desks, bright enough to hurt the eyes. Lin Chen’s pen did not stop. He did not know when the verification result from Provincial Institute of Technology would come through. He did not know whether the mock-exam score would later be voided. He did not know whether the injury in his foot would worsen. He knew only this: at this moment, he was sitting here. The pen was moving. The problems were being solved. The road was still under his feet.

11:30. The bell rang for the end of the exam. The invigilator collected the papers. The sound of chairs scraping rose through the room. Lin Chen stood up slowly. His left leg could no longer bear weight. Holding onto the edge of the desk, he edged himself out of his seat bit by bit. At the door, one of the invigilators called after him. “Lin Chen? The Academic Affairs Office needs to archive your deferred-exam application. Come by this afternoon.”

Lin Chen nodded and walked out of the room. The corridor was empty. He leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor. He took off the rubber shoe on his left foot. The sock had already stuck to the wound. When he peeled it off, it took a layer of skin with it. Bloody seepage mixed with medicinal stain and dripped onto the terrazzo floor. He looked at the dark red pool on the ground. His face did not change. He took out his Nokia. The screen lit up. A new text message. Provincial Institute of Technology Admissions Office: “Your verification materials have been archived. Interview notice will be issued within three days. Please keep your phone available.”

He turned off the screen and put the phone back in his pocket. Then he lifted his head and looked toward the window at the far end of the corridor. Sunlight struck the glass and scattered into a spray of tiny shifting flecks. He closed his eyes. His breathing was even. The next step was to wait. Wait for the notice. Wait for the score. Wait for the wound on his foot to scab over. Wait for the next bus.

Footsteps came from the far end of the corridor. Rapid, heavy. Old Chen appeared around the corner, a file in his hand, his face grimmer than the weather had been that morning. “Lin Chen,” he said, his voice echoing through the empty hall. “The grading team for the mock exam just notified us. There’s an irregularity in the fill-in section of your answer sheet. Come to Academic Affairs this afternoon and verify the original paper.”