Chapter 121: The Report and the Gap

2:50 p.m. Lin Chen pushed open the wooden door of the senior-year office. The smell of heat, chalk dust, and old newspapers rushed at him. The long table was already crowded with homeroom teachers and subject teachers, and steam rose fitfully from the tea in enamel mugs. Old Chen sat by the window with a stack of score sheets spread out before him, arranged by score range. Lin Chen went to the empty bench in the last row and sat down. The sole of his left rubber shoe had worn unevenly, and the blood that had seeped through had dried into a dark brown scab along the edge. He adjusted his posture, shifting all his weight onto his right leg, his knee slightly angled out to keep the shoe from pressing against the wound.

Three o’clock sharp. The grade-level director began reporting the first mock exam data. He spoke quickly, all numbers: projected cutoff for first-tier universities, borderline second-tier students, average science scores, subject-imbalance rates, the list of students on the edge. Lin Chen did not look up. On the back of his ledger, he drew a timeline. 3:20. The director read out the top ten science students. His name was not there. As expected. The pressure he had used filling in the answer sheet had been too light, the machine’s recognition rate too low; on manual review, the answers had been graded at the minimum standard, costing him eleven points off his total score. His ranking had slipped from top fifteen in the grade to forty-second. Fluctuation range: ±15. Conclusion accurate. He crossed out “±15” in the ledger and wrote: “Actual: -11. Within tolerance.” The pen paused for half a second, then moved on. Parameters updated. Emotions reset to zero.

The meeting ended. Teachers gathered their materials and dispersed, chair legs scraping harshly across the terrazzo floor. Old Chen walked over and handed him a folded sheet of paper. “Your review result. The grade office keeps one copy on file; this one is yours.” Lin Chen took it, unfolded it, and saw the red seal of the county No. 1 High School Academic Affairs Office stamped at the bottom of the form. The corrected total score was written in the score column. He read it once, folded it again, and slipped it into his document folder. “Teacher, I need your signature on my deferred-exam application and the physical exam certificate.” Old Chen glanced at him, his eyes falling on Lin Chen’s faintly trembling left leg. “Provincial Institute of Technology?” Lin Chen nodded. “Saturday, nine in the morning. County hospital physical. The report needs an official stamp.” Old Chen was silent for a few seconds, then took out a fountain pen from the drawer and signed his name on the application. The nib scratched softly across the paper. “Signed.” He pushed the form back. “But let me make this ugly part clear first. The second round of review starts Monday. Your seat can’t be empty. If the physical delays your Monday morning reading period, your deferred-exam eligibility is void, and it’ll be handled as an absence.” “Understood,” Lin Chen said. Nothing extra. He put the application away. First hurdle cleared.

When he stepped out of the office, the wind in the corridor had hardened with the afternoon. He took out his Nokia. 3:45. Sixty-five hours until Saturday at nine a.m. Gap: twenty yuan. Current balance: 0.6 yuan. He needed cash. He could not wait. He turned and went downstairs without returning to the classroom. He headed for the repair shop by the school gate. Old Zhao’s shop was still open. The rolling shutter was half lowered, and the shrill screech of a grinding wheel on metal came from inside. Lin Chen walked in. Old Zhao was squatting on the floor dismantling an old radio. Hearing footsteps, he looked up. “That foot still moves?” “It does.” Lin Chen set his document folder on the workbench. “Uncle Zhao, I finished organizing the explanations for that batch of science comprehensive papers from last time. Handwritten version. I marked the key wrong-answer traps, easy-to-confuse test points, and question-setting pitfalls. Forty-seven pages total. Want it?” Old Zhao put down the screwdriver, wiped his hands, and took the stack. The page edges were already fraying. The handwriting was extremely fine black ink, tightly laid out, no wasted words. Old Zhao flipped through more than a dozen pages, his finger stopping at several circuit-analysis problems. “Kid, you even marked the printing errors in the answer key.” “Printing errors cost points. I checked it three times,” Lin Chen said. “How much?” “Five yuan. Buyout.” Old Zhao looked up at him. “You only make two yuan selling scrap. How long did this take you to copy?” “Three days. After lights-out.” Old Zhao said nothing. He felt around in a drawer, pulled out five crumpled one-yuan notes, and slapped them on the table. “Take it. If you have more organized stuff like this next time, show me first.” Lin Chen picked up the money. His fingertips brushed the rough edges of the bills. Five yuan. The gap was now fifteen.

He left the repair shop. Dusk had already fallen. The streetlights had not yet come on. He headed for the Xinhua Bookstore in town. His thin reflection appeared in the glass door. He pushed it open. The wind chime rang once. The clerk was a middle-aged woman doing the accounts behind the counter. Lin Chen walked to the teaching aids section and pulled out two unsold copies of High School Physics Olympiad Guidance. Their spines had already yellowed; the price on each was twenty-eight yuan. He took them to the counter. “Auntie, can these two be returned? I bought them last week.” The woman looked up at him. “Sales are final. No quality problem, no return.” Lin Chen flipped one open to page thirty-two. In the middle of the page was an obvious cutting defect, with part of a diagram missing in a blank strip. “Printing and binding defect from the publisher. By policy it can be returned or exchanged.” The woman frowned and took the book to inspect it. “You’ve already worn these out.” “I only read the first two chapters. The defect is on page thirty-two. That doesn’t affect the return process.” His tone was steady. No emotion. Only rules. The woman sighed and opened the register. “Fine. Returned at full price. But cash only, not to a card.” She opened the drawer and counted out twenty-eight yuan. Lin Chen took it. Added to the five from before, that made thirty-three yuan. Minus the twenty-yuan physical exam fee, thirteen remained. He needed thirteen as transportation and emergency buffer. Enough.

He came out of the bookstore. The wind scraped his face like sandpaper. He turned into the town clinic. The smell of disinfectant mixed with mildew. The doctor on duty was reading a newspaper. Lin Chen sat down and rolled up the left leg of his pants. The gauze was already soaked through, its edges blackened. The doctor took one look and sucked in a breath. “What did you do to this foot? The infection’s already under the skin tissue. If you don’t deal with it now, you could lose the foot.” “Debridement. New dressing. Bandage,” Lin Chen said. “You need an IV. Anti-inflammatories.” “No IV. Just clean it out and bandage it. I have to go to the county hospital for a physical tomorrow morning. I can’t have needle marks left.” The doctor glared at him. “What are you, made of iron?” “Treat it to the minimum standard. How much?” “Three yuan for debridement, gauze, and iodine.” Lin Chen placed three one-yuan bills on the table. The doctor said nothing more. He took a tray and cut away the gauze. Pus, blood, and tissue fluid had mixed together. Lin Chen clenched his back teeth. The muscles in his face did not twitch. Only his breathing quickened. The iodine swab passed over the wound, and the sting shot up his spine like current. He stared at the eye chart on the wall. The E opened left. Right. Up. The doctor worked quickly. Cleaned it, medicated it, rewrapped the gauze, secured it. “No water for two days. No strenuous movement. If you get a fever, come immediately.” “Understood.” Lin Chen put his shoe back on and stood. When his left foot touched the floor, the gauze dulled the pain by one layer, but the heaviness inside the bone remained. He walked out of the clinic. It was fully dark.

He returned to the school dormitory. His roommates were all out. He switched on the desk lamp and spread open his ledger. Then he wrote:

18:20. Funds settlement. Income: organized materials 5 yuan + book return 28 yuan = 33 yuan. Expense: debridement and dressing change 3 yuan. Balance: 30 yuan. Target expenses: physical exam 20 yuan. Transportation 4 yuan. Emergency 6 yuan. Status: funds sufficient. Wound controlled. Signature obtained. Next step: Saturday, 6:00 a.m., first bus. County hospital physical exam department opens at 7:30. Submit report before 9:00. Risk: first bus occupancy rate 80%. Standing for 45 minutes poses high load risk to left foot. Physical exam queue time unknown. Tolerance: zero.

He closed the ledger. Pulling a suitcase from under the bed, he sorted his admission slip, ID card, application form, and cash into three separate transparent plastic bags and labeled them. His movements were mechanical, precise. Wind sounded outside, rolling dead leaves along the ground and slapping them against the window. He lay down and closed his eyes. There were no scores in his mind, no rankings, only the timetable. Six o’clock departure. Seven-thirty opening. Nine o’clock cutoff. Every point was a gate. He had to pass each one on time.

At two in the morning, he woke up. Not from insomnia. From body clock. He sat up, took out his Nokia, and the faint screen glow lit his face. He opened the text draft box and typed: “Saturday, 6:00 a.m., town entrance station. First bus. Reserve a seat.” Recipient: Old Zhao. Send. He needed to guarantee a seat on the bus. His left foot could not endure standing for forty-five minutes. Old Zhao drove the long-distance route and had some say in dispatch. The five-yuan materials fee, plus the tacit understanding built from Lin Chen’s usual help sorting the account books, was enough to exchange for a favor. The phone vibrated. Reply: “Fine. I’ll keep you an aisle seat. Don’t be late.” Lin Chen set the phone down and lay back again. His breathing steadied.

The next morning. 5:40. It was still dark. Frost covered the athletic field. Lin Chen slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the dormitory. His left foot touched the frozen concrete with a faint crunch. When he reached the town entrance, Old Zhao’s bus was already running. The engine roared, white vapor blowing from the exhaust pipe. Old Zhao sat in the driver’s seat. Seeing him, he tapped the horn. The door opened. Lin Chen boarded. The aisle seat was empty. He sat down and placed his bag on his lap. Six o’clock sharp. The bus pulled out of town. The uneven road sent regular vibrations through the frame. Lin Chen closed his eyes and calculated the distance. One hundred twenty kilometers. Forty-five minutes. Arrive at county hospital at 7:45. The physical exam department opens at 7:30. He would arrive fifteen minutes early. Queue. Blood draw. ECG. Internal medicine. Official stamp. Submit forms before nine. The logic chain was complete. Parameters locked.

The bus entered the provincial highway. The road had started to ice over. The tires skidded once. Driver Zhao cursed and slowed down. Lin Chen opened his eyes and looked out the window. The frost-covered asphalt looked like a strip of reflected light. He took out his ledger and, beside the “transportation” line, added in very small writing: “Road icing. Speed reduced 30%. Estimated delay 15 minutes. Tolerance reduced to zero. Activate backup plan: get off early and walk 3 kilometers. Cost: risk of tearing left-foot wound +40%. Accept.” He closed the ledger. His fingers pressed against the gauze on his left foot. Heat came through the cloth. He knew that for the next four hours, there would be no way back. Only forward. Every step would be crushing ice beneath his feet. Every step would bring him closer to that nine o’clock mark. The bus continued on. The engine echoed through the empty morning fog. Lin Chen said nothing. He only looked ahead. The road was still long. But the mark was still there.