Chapter 122: Scales and Gates

7:42 a.m. The coach’s tires rolled over the last speed bump, the whole vehicle jolted hard, and it pulled to a stop at the back gate of the county bus station.

Lin Chen opened his eyes.

A thin sheet of white frost coated the bus window. At the edges it had already begun to melt, trails of water winding downward. He took out his Nokia. The screen read 07:43. Two minutes later than estimated.

He unfastened his seat belt and lifted his backpack. The moment his left foot touched the ground, a dull pain shot up from the wound beneath the gauze. It was like a blunt knife scraping slowly between his bones. He clenched his back teeth, shifted his center of gravity, and put his weight onto his right foot and the outer side of his left leg.

The door opened. Cold wind rushed in.

He got off.

The county hospital stood across from the bus station, separated by a two-way four-lane provincial road. The zebra crossing was cut apart by the flow of rush-hour traffic. Lin Chen stood at the curb, waiting for the light to change.

The red countdown read: 47, 46, 45.

He lowered his gaze to his watch. 7:45.

The physical examination department had opened at 7:30, but registration officially started at 8:00. He still had fifteen minutes of buffer.

The light turned green.

He stepped forward. His right foot pushed off; his left dragged. He kept his stride to forty centimeters. Every step was a precise calculation of the shearing force the wound could bear. The sole of his shoe brushed against the asphalt with a faint rasping sound.

He crossed the road and pushed open the glass door to the county hospital’s outpatient hall.

The smell of disinfectant hit him in the face—ten times stronger than at the town clinic—mixed with sweat, phlegm, and cheap tobacco. A long line had already formed in the lobby. He walked to the information desk. The nurse didn’t even look up, her fingers tapping at the keyboard.

“Physical exams are on the second floor, left side. Get the form first, then pay on the first floor. Don’t cut in line.”

Lin Chen went to the cashier window on the first floor and slid in a ten-yuan note. “Standard physical. Urgent.”

The hands inside the window tapped a few keys. “Twenty. Cash.”

He handed over a second ten-yuan note and took the receipt and the exam form. The form was stiff cardstock, its edges sharp. Tucking it under his arm, he squeezed into the stairwell.

The second-floor corridor was even more crowded. More than twenty people were waiting at the blood draw window. Three elderly people sat outside the ECG room. The door to internal medicine stood half open.

Lin Chen took his place at the end of the blood draw line.

The line moved slowly. He leaned against the wall and set his backpack by his feet. He didn’t dare let his left foot bear full weight; he could only let it touch the ground lightly. Tissue fluid leaking from the wound had already soaked through the inner layer of gauze. Sticky. Burning hot.

He closed his eyes and silently recited the sequence:

Blood draw. ECG. Internal medicine. Stamp. Submit form before nine.

The chain of logic could not break.

At 8:05, it was his turn.

The nurse tugged back his sleeve. An alcohol swab passed over the crook of his arm, a cold sting. The needle slipped into his vein. Dark red blood flowed into the vacuum tube. He stared at the measurement marks on the side.

Two milliliters. Three. Four.

Enough.

The nurse pulled out the needle and handed him a cotton swab. “Press for three minutes.”

He did as instructed and walked toward the ECG room. There were now two fewer people at the door. He went in, lay down on the exam bed, and let the cold electrode pads adhere to his chest and limbs.

The machine started up. The faint electrical hum filled the room.

The doctor studied the waveform on the monitor. “Heart rate’s a little fast. Ninety. Nervous?”

“Came in a hurry,” Lin Chen said.

The doctor didn’t ask anything more. He printed the strip, tore it off, and handed it over.

8:20.

In the internal medicine room, the old doctor wore reading glasses and flipped through his form. “Take off your shoes. Auscultation.”

Lin Chen sat down and loosened the lace on his left shoe. He moved slowly. His sock had already stuck to the gauze. He didn’t dare yank it free. He could only peel it away bit by bit.

When the sock finally came off, the edge of the gauze had darkened, yellow-brown fluid seeping through. A foul smell spread into the room.

The old doctor frowned. “What happened to your foot?”

“I fell. It got infected.”

“Why aren’t you on IV antibiotics? It’s already suppurating.”

“No time. I have to get the physical exam report today.”

The doctor sighed and placed the stethoscope against his chest. “Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale.”

When he finished listening, he stamped the form.

“Cardiovascularly normal. Infectious disease indicators depend on the blood test results—they’ll be out this afternoon. If you paid for urgent processing, come get them at 4:30. For now I can only stamp this as ‘preliminarily passed.’ The formal report has to wait for the bloodwork.”

Lin Chen fixed his eyes on the red stamp: Preliminary Pass.

“Provincial Polytechnic requires the formal report for verification,” he said. “Stamped with the hospital seal. Can the blood results come earlier?”

The doctor shook his head. “There’s only one machine. Too many people in line. 4:30 is the earliest. Can’t you wait?”

“I have to submit my materials by nine.”

His voice was flat, without any rise or fall.

The doctor looked at him, then at his foot. “You’re a student?”

“Twelfth grade.”

The doctor was silent for several seconds. Then he opened a drawer and took out a blank lab slip.

“I can ask the lab to prioritize your sample,” he said. “But the machine needs twenty minutes just to warm up. You won’t have it before nine. Unless…”

He paused.

“Unless you take this preliminary exam form to the admissions office and explain the situation. Or you find someone you know to press them. I won’t make an exception.”

Lin Chen put away the form. He pulled his sock back on, his movements stiff, and laced up his shoe tightly. Then he stood.

When his left foot touched the floor, the pain came through clearly. But by now he was used to it.

He walked out of internal medicine.

The corridor buzzed with voices. Leaning against the wall, he opened his ledger and crossed out “20 yuan” under the “physical exam” entry. Beside it he added a note:

Preliminary stamp obtained. Blood report available 16:30. Conflict: Provincial Polytechnic verification deadline 9:00. Missing item: formal report. Path: attempt verification first with preliminary form + blood test payment receipt. Tolerance: zero. Risk: admissions office rejects preliminary form.

He closed the ledger, took out his phone, and dialed Old Chen.

Busy signal.

He dialed again.

This time it connected.

“Teacher Chen. It’s Lin Chen.”

“I’m in a meeting. What is it?”

“The preliminary physical exam form has been stamped. The blood report won’t be out until 4:30 this afternoon. Provincial Polytechnic verification closes at 9:00. Can I submit the preliminary form and payment receipt first, and make up the formal report afterward?”

Silence on the other end. The sound of papers being turned.

“The admissions office only recognizes originals with the official seal. Missing materials are treated the same as missing the exam.”

“If I can prove the blood test has already been done, and only the report is delayed?”

“Rules are rules. Lin Chen, don’t narrow your own road. If you miss this afternoon’s mock exam, your score is recorded as zero. Think carefully.”

The call ended.

The busy tone droned in his ear.

Lin Chen lowered the phone. The white fluorescent lights in the corridor were harsh. He looked at his watch.

8:35.

Twenty-five minutes until nine.

The verification site for Provincial Polytechnic—the third floor of the county guesthouse—was still three kilometers away. Fifteen minutes by bus. Forty on foot. His left foot could not take forty continuous minutes of walking.

He had to catch the bus.

He turned and went downstairs, out through the hospital doors. The cold wind cut across his face. He walked to the bus stop, where a route map was pasted to the signpost. Route 3 went directly to the county guesthouse.

First bus: 8:40.

He stood under the sign and waited.

The wound on his left foot had already soaked through a second layer of gauze, sticking to the insole. Each step felt like treading in wet mud.

But he did not stop.

At 8:42, the Route 3 bus pulled in.

The doors opened. He got on, dropped in his fare, walked to the last row, and sat down with his backpack in his arms.

The vehicle lurched into motion.

He closed his eyes and rearranged the timetable in his head:

Arrive at guesthouse 9:05. Submit preliminary form + payment receipt + handwritten explanation. If rejected, immediately initiate backup plan: contact Provincial Polytechnic admissions office by phone, request online verification or an extension for submission. If accepted, return to county hospital at 4:30 to collect formal report. If unsuccessful, abandon verification and go back to school for the make-up exam.

Outside the window, the streets of the county town slid backward. Steam rising from breakfast stalls. Bicycle bells. Students in school uniforms.

Everything was running as normal.

Only his own timeline had been compressed into a single thin line, so thin it might snap at any second.

But he had to keep hold of it.

At 9:03, the bus stopped at County Guesthouse Station.

Lin Chen got off and looked up at the third floor. The windows were shut tight.

He stepped forward and climbed.

The stairs were steep. He braced himself against the wall.

One flight. Two. Three.

His left foot dragged. His breathing grew heavier. Sweat soaked through his undershirt.

At 9:07, he stood before Room 302.

A paper sign was taped to the door: Provincial Polytechnic Special Admissions Materials Verification Office.

He knocked.

Footsteps sounded inside. The door opened. A middle-aged man in glasses stuck out his head.

“Materials.”

Lin Chen handed over the document pouch.

The man took it and flipped through the contents. His brows drew together. “Where’s the physical exam report? This only has a preliminary stamp.”

“The blood report comes out this afternoon. Here’s the payment receipt and a written explanation. I’m applying to complete verification first and submit the original later today.”

The man pushed the pouch back at him. “The rules are written very clearly. Original documents are checked, copies are kept on file. Incomplete materials are not accepted. Next.”

The door shut.

Lin Chen stood in the hallway, the document pouch returned to his hands. He looked down at the papers. Their edges had gone soft with sweat.

He did not knock again.

He did not argue.

He simply packed the papers back into the pouch, turned around, and went downstairs.

The stairwell was dim.

He reached the first floor and pushed open the glass door. Sunlight stabbed at his eyes. He took out his Nokia. The screen read 09:12.

Seven hours and eighteen minutes until he could collect the report at 4:30.

Two hours until registration for the mock-exam makeup closed.

He opened his ledger to a new page and wrote:

09:15. Plan B invalid. Switch to Plan C. Objective: collect formal report at 16:30. Deliver to admissions office before 17:00. Return to school before 18:00 to register for makeup exam. Gaps: transportation. Time. Left foot’s load-bearing limit. Path: intercept return coach this afternoon. Walk substitute segments where necessary. Request extension for makeup exam registration. Tolerance: negative.

He closed the ledger and looked up at the sky.

The cloud cover hung very low. The wind carried the smell of rain.

He set off toward the bus stop.

When his left foot landed, the pain was still there. But he knew the scale was still ticking. It had only shifted onto another track.

His phone vibrated.

A new text message.

Unknown number.

“Student Lin Chen. Provincial Polytechnic Admissions Office. Your preliminary materials have been temporarily held. Please submit the formal report by 17:00 today. Late submission will be treated as voluntary withdrawal. Also: after verification is approved, you must attend the written retest at 8:00 tomorrow morning. Location to be announced separately.”

Lin Chen stared at the screen. His thumb hovered above the keys.

He did not reply.

He put the phone back into his pocket and quickened his pace.

Rain began to fall.

The drops struck his face, cold and sharp.

He did not look at the sky.

He looked only at the road beneath his feet.

The next step was to wait at the county hospital for the blood report.

The next step was to hurry back to school.

The next step was to stay alive.