Chapter 123: Scales and Negative Values

The rain fell in a dense, fine curtain. There was no wind; the threads of rain struck the bluestone paving straight down, kicking up a layer of white mist. Lin Chen did not run. Running would increase the friction on his left foot. If the gauze shifted even a little, the seepage would soak straight through the sole of his shoe and make slipping more likely. He kept close to the eaves of the arcaded storefronts along the street, holding his stride to forty centimeters. Each time his foot came down, the sole tested the ground first; only after confirming it would not slip did he shift his weight onto it. The pain had already dulled, replaced by a heavy dragging sensation, as if a waterlogged brick had been tied to his ankle.

He took out his Nokia. The screen showed 14:20. There were still two hours and ten minutes until he had to collect the report at 4:30. There were forty minutes left before make-up exam registration closed. He stood beneath the plastic awning outside a hardware store and opened his ledger. Rainwater dripped from the edge of the canopy, blooming a small wet ring along the margin of the page. He blocked it with his thumb and kept writing.

“14:20. Reached the back street of the county hospital. Taking shelter from rain. Left foot load-bearing at critical threshold. Plan C revision: defer make-up exam registration. Commit all focus to verification.”

The pen paused. He crossed out “defer” and changed it to “temporarily postpone.” A zero on the make-up exam was already a fixed loss, but his student record could not be left blank. He needed his homeroom teacher to fill in an explanation for his absence, but that would have to wait until he returned to school tomorrow. Today there was only one main line: 16:30, blood test report. 17:00, admissions office window. Margin of error: ten minutes.

Time was cut into units of minutes. Leaning against the cold tiled wall, he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. There was no anxiety in his mind, only procedural simulation. Blood test reports were usually printed in batches by the laboratory and distributed starting at four in the afternoon. The number of people in line at the window was unknown. If there were more than fifteen, he would need to take a number in advance. He opened his eyes and pulled a crumpled registration slip from the side pocket of his backpack. On the back, in pencil, was a simple route map: outpatient lobby → laboratory → Window 3 → collect report → elevator to the third-floor admissions office.

15:40. The rain had eased. He got to his feet and walked into the hospital. The smell of disinfectant mixed with damp mildew rushed at him. There were not many people in the lobby, but there were already seven or eight waiting in front of the laboratory window. He went to the back of the line. His left shoe made a faint sticky slap against the floor; the seepage had already soaked through the second layer of gauze and was clinging to his skin. He ignored it. His eyes stayed fixed on the electronic clock on the wall.

16:05. The line moved forward. 16:20. People near the front began complaining that the printer had jammed. A nurse leaned out and said, “Machine malfunction. We’re switching to the backup. Everything will be delayed twenty minutes.”

Lin Chen’s pupils tightened slightly. Twenty minutes. The deadline was 17:00. He stepped to the window, his voice not loud but clear. “Ma’am, I’m here for verification under the Provincial Institute of Technology special admissions program. Blood test form number 0472. Could you retrieve the electronic data first, print it, and stamp it? I have to submit the original before 17:00.”

The nurse looked up at him. His pant leg was rolled to the calf, and the edge of the gauze had already turned yellow and stiff. “Reports are released together after four. Without a machine, I can’t stamp anything. Wait.”

“And if the machine can’t be fixed?”

“Then come back tomorrow.”

Lin Chen did not argue. He stepped back into the corridor and took out his phone. He dialed the number the admissions office had sent that afternoon. Busy tone. He dialed again. This time it connected. “Teacher, the laboratory printer is down. The report may be delayed. Can I submit the payment receipt and preliminary examination form first, and have you note that the report will be supplemented later?”

There was a two-second silence on the other end. “Seventeen hundred is the system entry cutoff. Once it passes, the system locks automatically. You won’t get an admission ticket number, and tomorrow you won’t be able to enter the exam hall for the written test. Lin Chen, this is a hard rule.”

“Understood. I’ll be there on time.”

He hung up and leaned against the wall. 16:35. The backup machine still was not working. He lowered his head and looked at his watch. The second hand ticked forward one mark at a time. Then he turned and walked toward the stairwell, pushed open the fire door, and headed up through the emergency stairs. The third floor was the administrative offices. He needed to confirm whether the admissions office was still there. If it was not, he had to know where to submit the report.

The third-floor corridor was empty. Room 302 was shut tight. A notice had been wedged beneath the door: “Deadline for receipt of verification materials today: 17:00. For late submissions, please go to Academic Affairs Office, Room 205.” He memorized the room number and turned to go back downstairs. 16:42.

When he returned to the laboratory, the backup machine had finally started up. The printer gave off a harsh mechanical whine. The queue had shortened to three people. Lin Chen stood where he was, his left foot trembling slightly. Not from cold, but from cramping after his muscles had been held tense for too long. He stamped his foot hard against the floor. Pain pierced through the numbness and snapped him awake.

16:48. His turn. The nurse handed him an A4 sheet. At the top was printed: “Provincial People’s Hospital Laboratory Report.” Name: Lin Chen. Items: complete blood count, liver and kidney function. In the conclusion field was a red “Laboratory Special Seal.” He took it with both hands. The paper was faintly warm, its edges crisp.

“Thank you.” He turned and quickened his pace. He no longer controlled his stride. Every time his left foot hit the ground, it felt as though he were stepping on shattered glass. He ignored it. The corridor lights stretched across his retinas into blurred bands. He shoved open the fire door and charged up the stairs. One step. Two. Three. His breathing grew ragged. Sweat mixed with rainwater and slid from his brow into his eyes. He blinked once and kept climbing.

16:56. He stood in front of Academic Affairs Office, Room 205. The door was open. The lights were on inside. A young woman at a desk was sorting documents. He knocked, walked in, and spread the report, the preliminary examination form, the payment receipt, and his written explanation flat across the desk in order.

“Provincial Institute of Technology special admissions program. Lin Chen. Submitting the formal report.”

The teacher looked up and checked the clock. 16:58. She picked up the report, verified the name and the official seal, then glanced at his soaked trouser leg and the yellowing gauze. Her gaze lingered for a second. “The system hasn’t closed yet. You got lucky.” She pulled out a stamp and brought it down on the receipt slip: “Verified.” Then she tore off the acknowledgment stub and handed it to him. “Written exam tomorrow at eight. Location: Affiliated High School of the Normal University. Bring your admission ticket and ID card. No late arrivals.”

Lin Chen took the receipt. The paper was very light. He nodded. “Thank you.”

He turned and walked out of the office. A draft blew through the corridor and across his soaked clothes, raising gooseflesh all over him. He leaned against the wall and slowly slid down to sit on the floor. His left foot had finally gone completely numb. He untied his shoelaces and pulled off the left sneaker. The gauze had already been entirely soaked through with dark red seepage, the edges crusted hard. He did not tend to it. He simply put the shoe back on and tied it tight again.

He opened the ledger and wrote on a fresh page:

“17:05. Report submitted. Verification passed. Tomorrow’s written exam location: Affiliated High School of the Normal University. Gaps: transportation. Lodging. Wound care.”

Remaining funds: 0.6 yuan.

The Affiliated High School was in the northern part of the city. It was eight kilometers from the county guesthouse. The last bus stopped running at six. Walking would take two hours. His left foot could not bear it. He had to find somewhere to stay tonight and treat the wound. Otherwise, tomorrow for the written exam, he would not even make it to the exam hall.

His phone vibrated. A text message. From his homeroom teacher: “Lin Chen, registration for the first mock exam make-up has closed. Academic Affairs has recorded it as an absence. Good luck on the written exam tomorrow.”

He stared at the screen. His thumb hovered there. He did not reply. He put the phone back into his pocket.

The rain had stopped. Dusk was falling. Streetlights came on one after another. He stood up, bracing himself against the wall, and went slowly down step by step. In the stairwell, the motion-sensor lights flared on with his footsteps, then went dark again.

When he reached the first-floor lobby, he took out his Nokia and dialed Old Zhao’s number.

“Uncle Zhao, it’s Lin Chen. Tomorrow morning at six, can you make a run to the Affiliated High School of the Normal University? I’ll pay extra.”

From the other end came the sound of an engine idling and Old Zhao coughing. “Six? Too early. The road to the north side had a landslide last night—it just reopened. Fare has to double. Thirty.”

“Fine. I’ll be waiting at the town entrance at 5:40 tomorrow morning.”

“You kid... your foot okay?”

“I can still walk.”

He hung up. Thirty yuan. The deficit in his ledger expanded instantly. He opened it and wrote under “Transportation”: -30. Balance: -29.4.

He closed the ledger and looked up at the night outside the lobby. The air after the rain was cold. He drew a deep breath and stepped out of the hospital. Next step: find a place to sleep. Next step: treat the wound. Next step: stay alive until eight tomorrow morning.

The pharmacy at the corner was still lit. He walked over and pushed open the door. The wind chime rang once. The shopkeeper behind the counter looked up.

“Iodophor and gauze. The cheapest you have.”

“One yuan fifty.”

He took out his coins and set them on the counter. The shopkeeper gave him change. He accepted it and turned back into the night.

The numbers in the ledger were jumping. But the scale was still there. As long as the scale was still there, the road could still be walked. He turned into a narrow alley. At the end of it stood an abandoned boiler room. The roof leaked, but the corner by the wall was dry. He pushed open the door. Dust rushed into his face. He set down his backpack and took off the shoe and sock on his left foot. The wound had already gone pale, its edges red and swollen. He unscrewed the cap on the iodophor bottle. The cotton swab dipped in. The sting shot through his nerves. He bit down on his lower lip and made no sound. Once, twice, three times. He cleaned away the necrotic tissue, changed into fresh gauze, and wrapped it again.

When it was done, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. His breathing gradually steadied. Tomorrow at eight. Affiliated High School of the Normal University. Thirty yuan in fare. A balance of negative 29.4. A wound gone pale. All the parameters had been entered. He did not need a miracle. He only needed to place every step exactly right.

The night wind came through the broken window, stirring the wastepaper on the floor. He took out his Nokia. The screen lit up. A new text message, from an unknown number.

“Student Lin Chen. The written exam room at the Affiliated High School of the Normal University has been temporarily moved to Block B of the Experimental Building. Identity verification must be completed half an hour in advance. In addition: no drinking water will be provided in the examination room. Please bring your own.”

Lin Chen stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the keypad. He did not reply. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, then took out half a bottle of mineral water from his backpack. He unscrewed the cap and took a drink. The water was cold as it slid down his throat. He screwed the cap back on and tucked it into the inner pocket.

The scale was still there. The road was still there. He closed his eyes and waited for dawn.