Chapter 124: Scales and the Exam Hall

There was no warmth in the boiler room at night. Wind squeezed through the cracks in the broken window, carrying the smell of coal dust and damp earth. Lin Chen leaned against the brick wall with his eyes closed. A dull pain came from his left foot through the gauze, like a rusted nail wedged into the seam of the bone. He did not turn over. Turning would pull at the muscles and waste strength. He kept the same position and slowed his breathing to a crawl. Each inhale dragged cold air across his throat; each exhale spread white mist into the dimness.

His phone screen stayed dark in his pocket. He did not check the time. His body clock was more accurate than quartz. 4:20. 4:50. 5:10.

At 5:25, he opened his eyes. The sky was a leaden gray. He sat up and slowly rolled up his pant leg. The edge of the gauze had already dried and hardened; there was no fresh seepage. He twisted open the cap of the iodophor bottle and used a cotton swab to go around the edges once more. His movements were light. As the iodophor evaporated, it carried away the little heat left in the skin, raising a fine layer of goosebumps. He put his shoe back on. He tied the laces tight, cinching his ankle and holding the swollen top of his foot in place inside the shoe. The pain compressed into a single line. He could walk.

He checked his backpack. Admission ticket. ID card. Two sharpened 2B pencils. Black gel pen. Eraser. Half a bottle of mineral water. Ledger. Nokia.

Balance: negative 29.4. Water: half a bottle. Foot: still load-bearing. Parameters complete.

He stood up and pushed open the door. The morning fog was thick. The lane was full of potholes, and the puddles reflected the gray-white light of dawn. He avoided the standing water, touching down with his left foot and driving himself forward with the right. He shortened his stride to forty centimeters. His breathing matched his steps. Two steps in, two steps out.

Under the old locust tree at the entrance to town, Old Zhao’s Santana was already waiting. The engine idled, and the exhaust pipe breathed white smoke. Lin Chen walked over, opened the passenger-side door, got in, and shut it behind him.

“You made it.” Old Zhao handed him a cigarette, though he did not light one himself and instead tucked it behind his ear. “The road’s still bad. The stretch where the landslide hit last night got filled with gravel. It’ll be rough.”

“Mm.” Lin Chen fastened his seat belt and held his backpack against his chest.

The car pulled away. The tires crushed over gravel. Heavy thuds came up from the chassis. Every jolt was like a cluster of fine needles stabbing the nerve endings in his left foot. He clenched his back teeth and fixed his gaze on the fog beyond the windshield. Old Zhao said nothing, only turned the radio down. Through the static came the faint voice of the morning news.

At 6:20, the car entered the county seat. The streets were beginning to wake. Tricycles selling steamed buns, bamboo brooms sweeping the road, white steam rising from the stackers of breakfast stalls. Lin Chen looked out the window. None of it had anything to do with him. His world consisted only of the exam room waiting at eight o’clock and the half bottle of water in his arms.

At 6:50, they reached the gate of the Affiliated High School of the Normal University. The light in the security booth was on. Old Zhao stopped the car. “We’re here. Get your admission ticket out and have it ready.”

Lin Chen pushed the door open. Cold wind struck his face. He got out. His left foot touched the ground. The pain lagged behind by a second, then surged up. He steadied himself and took a crumpled receipt from Old Zhao’s hand. “Uncle Zhao. I’ve written it down. I’ll pay you back next month.”

“Go take your exam.” Old Zhao waved him off, shifted into reverse, and backed away. His taillights disappeared into the morning fog.

Lin Chen turned toward the school gate. The guard checked his admission ticket and ID card, stamped them, and let him through. He followed the tree-lined path inward. A sign pointed toward Experimental Building B. Eight hundred meters away. He adjusted his gait. Drag with the left foot, support with the right. Keep the breathing steady.

At 7:10, he reached the lobby of Experimental Building B. Students were already lining up. They wore uniforms from different schools, and every face held a different expression. Some were reviewing vocabulary. Some rested with their eyes closed. Some paced back and forth. Lin Chen went to the end of the line and set his backpack by his feet. He unscrewed the bottle cap and took a small sip. The water moistened his cracked lips before he swallowed it. A slight spasm rose in his stomach. He tightened the cap and slid the bottle back into the inner pocket.

At 7:20, the staff began verification. ID card. Admission ticket. Face check. Lin Chen handed over his documents. The staff member glanced at them. “Go in. Third floor. Room 307. Sit in your assigned seat. Papers go out at eight. Anyone more than fifteen minutes late is barred from the exam.”

He nodded and went upstairs. The staircase was wide, the floor polished terrazzo. He held the railing. One step, then another. He did not dare put full weight on his left foot and had to let his right leg and arm share the load. Sweat seeped out along his temples. He did not wipe it away.

At 7:35, he entered Room 307. The door stood open. One proctor was beside the lectern. On the blackboard were the exam rules and the seating chart. Lin Chen found his seat and sat down. The desktop was smooth and level. The drawer was empty. He took out his pencil case. The admission ticket went under one corner of the desk. The ledger stayed on the bottom.

At 7:45, the room was full. The air smelled of paper and old wood. The proctor handed out scratch paper. Lin Chen took his and wrote his name and admission number in the upper right corner. His handwriting was steady.

At 7:55, the proctor unsealed the exam packet. The sound of plastic tearing was unusually sharp in the quiet classroom. Lin Chen took a deep breath. Beneath the desk, he shifted the angle of his left foot slightly to avoid putting pressure on the wound.

At 8:00 sharp, the bell rang.

“Begin.”

The papers came down the rows. Lin Chen turned to the first page. Multiple choice. Physics. Math. Integrated problems. The formats were familiar. He picked up his 2B pencil and filled in the answer sheet. His movements were mechanical and precise. No hesitation. No looking back. When he hit a problem that snagged, he marked it and moved on. He followed his preset time allocation exactly: forty minutes for multiple choice, thirty for fill-ins, seventy for the major problems.

At 9:20, he was on the long physics section. Force analysis. Circuit diagrams. He set up equations. The tip of his pen rasped against the paper. His left foot was beginning to go numb. The swelling seemed to crawl upward. He stopped writing and flexed his ankle. The pain turned sharp. He bit down on his lower lip and kept going.

At 10:10, he reached the final math problem. Analytic geometry. The calculations were massive. He had already filled one sheet of scratch paper and switched to a second. His finger joints whitened with effort. His throat was dry and tight. He unscrewed the bottle and took a sip. The water was warm by now. It eased the thirst, if only a little.

At 11:20, he finished the final big question. He wrote down the last equal sign, then checked the answer sheet. No mistakes in the bubbles. No mistakes in his name or admission number. He set down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. Breathing, pages turning, pen tips scratching—together they formed a field of white noise. His left foot had gone completely numb now, as though it no longer belonged to him.

At 11:30, the papers were collected.

The proctor took away the exam and the scratch paper. Lin Chen stood up. His legs buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the desk and steadied his center of gravity, then slowly made his way out. People were already starting to compare answers in the hallway. The noise was chaotic. He lowered his head to avoid the crowd and went downstairs one step at a time.

When he stepped out of the building, sunlight had pierced the cloud cover and spilled over the concrete. He went to the edge of a flower bed and sat down. From his backpack he took out his ledger, opened it, and wrote on a fresh page:

“11:40. Written exam complete. Estimated completion rate: 85%. Left foot numb. Water remaining: one-third. Balance: negative 29.4. Gaps: interview notice. Return transportation. Risk of wound infection.”

He closed the ledger and looked up at the sky. The clouds were breaking apart. There was warmth in the wind.

His phone vibrated. The screen lit up. A text message. From the admissions office of the Provincial Institute of Technology.

“Student Lin Chen. Written exam scores will be announced within three days. If you qualify for the interview, please report to Room 301, Administrative Building, main campus, at 9:00 a.m. Friday with your original documents. Failure to appear on time will be treated as withdrawal. In addition: the interview includes spoken English and professional questioning. Please bring formal attire.”

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Formal attire. In his wardrobe there was only one blue shirt washed pale with wear and one pair of black trousers. The hems were too short. His shoes were old sneakers. An interview required him to look presentable. Looking presentable cost money. He opened the ledger again and wrote under “formal attire”: secondhand market estimate, 15–20 yuan. Shoe polish, 2 yuan. Round-trip bus fare, 4 yuan. Total: 24–26 yuan.

Current balance: negative 29.4. The gap had widened to 53 to 55 yuan. Time window: seventy-two hours.

He put away his phone and stood up. His left foot hit the ground, and the pain returned to his brain in a dulled wave. He took a step and headed toward the school gate.

Old Zhao’s car was gone. He walked to the bus stop. The sign listed the time of the last bus. He calculated quickly. Two hours on foot back to the entrance of town. His foot would not hold. Waiting for the bus was uncertain.

He took out his Nokia and called the owner of the repair shop.

“Boss, it’s Lin Chen. Do you still want that old radio from last time? Fifty yuan. I can bring it today.”

The other end was silent for two seconds. “Fifty? Fine. Bring it over. I’m at the shop.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He hung up. He opened the ledger and wrote under “asset liquidation”: +50. Balance: +20.6.

Formal attire gap. Interview transportation. Wound care. Twenty yuan and six jiao. Three days.

He shut the ledger and swung his backpack onto his shoulder. Then he stepped into the sunlight. The scale was still there. The road was still there. Next step: go to the repair shop. Next step: piece together formal clothes. Next step: wait for the notice.

A few yellow leaves dropped from the plane trees along the street and brushed his shoulder. He did not stop. His steps were steady. Every time his left foot touched the ground, it was as if he were stepping onto solid earth. He knew the written exam was only the first gate. The road behind it was steeper still. But he was used to that by now—used to breaking steep slopes into stairs, the unknown into parameters, fear into the next step.

Wind ran through the street and tugged at the hem of his clothes. He lifted his head and looked ahead. In the daylight, the shape of the county town grew sharp and clear. He quickened his pace and did not look back.

The Nokia in his pocket vibrated again. He stopped and took it out. A new text message. From the Academic Affairs Office of County No. 1 High School.

“Student Lin Chen. Your absence from the first mock exam has been entered into the record. Your homeroom teacher’s request for a deferred sitting was not approved. Please be informed.”

He stared at the line of text. His thumb rested on the keypad for three seconds. He did not reply. He put the phone back in his pocket and kept walking.

The absence was now final. The path for a deferred exam was closed. The interview notice from the Provincial Institute of Technology had not yet arrived. He stood at the crossing point of two tracks: one leading toward fixed rules, the other toward unknown probabilities. He did not need to choose. He only needed to finish the road beneath his feet.

The sign for the repair shop appeared at the corner of the street. He pushed open the door. The wind chime rang once. The owner looked up.

“I brought the radio.” Lin Chen set down his backpack with careful hands.