Chapter 125: Marks and Echoes

The repair shop smelled of machine oil and old metal. The owner set down his soldering iron and took the old radio Lin Chen handed over. Its casing was dark gray plastic, the knob a little loose, the edge of the tuning dial yellowed with age. He turned the knob. Through the crackle of static came the faint midday news from the county radio station.

“It still works. Fifty is fifty.” The owner counted out five ten-yuan notes from a drawer and held them over. The edges of the bills were curled, carrying the smells of sweat and oil.

Lin Chen took them. His fingertips brushed the rough back of the man’s hand. He folded the money in half and slipped it into the pocket inside his jacket. In his mind, the ledger turned a page on its own: +50. Balance: 20.6.

“What happened to your foot?” the owner asked, glancing at the slight hitch in his left leg, his eyes resting for a second on the mud staining the hem of his pant leg.

“Worn raw. It’s fine.” Lin Chen did not explain further. He turned and pushed open the door. The wind chime rang again.

The county’s secondhand market lay at the end of the old street. The bluestone paving had been worn glossy by time, dark green moss growing in the cracks. Low storefronts lined both sides beneath faded signs. Lin Chen walked slowly along the curb. Each time his left foot touched down, a blunt ache rose from the wound beneath the gauze. He shifted his center of gravity, putting the weight on his right foot and the ball of his left. Shorter steps. Even breathing.

He needed a shirt fit for an interview, and a pair of trousers that fit. Budget: twenty yuan. A suit jacket was too expensive and had to be given up. The text from the admissions office had said formal attire required, but for an examinee from a county town, presentability was relative. Clean, pressed, properly fitted—that was the baseline.

Outside the third used-clothing shop hung a row of men’s shirts washed nearly white with wear. Lin Chen stopped. His gaze moved over collars and cuffs. No obvious stains. No tears. He picked out a pale blue one. Cotton. A collar with enough stiffness left in it.

“How much?”

“Eight.” The owner was a middle-aged woman bent over a sweater, mending it with tight, neat stitches.

“Six. It’s yellowed a little inside the collar.” Lin Chen pointed to the seam in the fabric.

The woman looked up at him, then at his old jacket washed pale with wear and the mud-spattered hems of his trousers. “Seven. No lower. It’s good material. It doesn’t go limp even after washing.”

“Six and a half. I’m only taking this one.” His voice stayed level. No bargaining rhythm in it. Just a statement.

The woman sighed, stuck the needle into the sweater, and waved a hand. “Take it.”

Lin Chen handed over the money and took the shirt. He folded it neatly and put it into his backpack. Balance: 14.1.

The trousers were at the stall next door. Black dress pants. The waist fit. The legs were slightly too long. Ten yuan. He leaned against the wall and tried them on. Wearable. He rolled the hems and fixed them with safety pins. Balance: 4.1.

The remaining four yuan and one jiao was not enough for a room. He went back to the abandoned boiler room at the edge of town. The corner by the wall was dry, with old newspapers spread over the ground. He set down his backpack and took off the shoe and sock from his left foot. The redness and swelling around the wound had already spread to his ankle. The gauze was soaked through with seepage and slightly stiff to the touch. He unscrewed the iodophor, wet a cotton swab, and cleaned the wound. The sting climbed up his nerves. He clenched his back teeth and kept his breathing steady. Fresh gauze. Tape to hold it in place.

When he was done, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Then he took out the pale blue shirt and held it up to the light falling through the broken window of the boiler room, checking every seam carefully. No loose threads. No holes. He hung it from the strap of his backpack and let the wind dry it naturally.

His phone rested on his knee, the screen dark. He was waiting. Waiting for the written exam score. Waiting for the interview notice. Waiting for time to move toward Friday, nine in the morning.

The afternoon sun slanted in. Dust drifted slowly through the beam of light. He pulled out his ledger and wrote on a new page:

“14:30. Asset liquidation complete. Formalwear purchase complete. Balance: 4.1. Seepage from left-foot wound reduced. Risk: infection. Estimated compliance rate of interview attire: 70%. Gaps: shoe polish. Bus fare. Spare gauze.”

He closed the ledger. No need to write more. The parameters were clear. What remained was execution.

He shut his eyes and began reciting technical interview answers from memory. Analog circuits. Signals and systems. Gain calculations in analog electronics. Logic-gate conversions in digital electronics. Self-introduction in English. Slower speech. Precise pronunciation. Every word ran through his head once. Not fluency. Accuracy.

Time passed in silence. Outside the boiler room came the distant horn of a freight truck. The sky gradually darkened.

At seven in the evening, he took out the Nokia. The screen lit up. No new messages. Only the time: 19:00.

He stood and walked to the tap outside the boiler room. He filled half a bottle with tap water, unscrewed it, and took a drink. The water was cold. It slid down his throat, and his stomach tightened. From the bottom of his backpack he found half a compressed biscuit. He broke it apart and chewed slowly. Dry. Hard to swallow. But he forced it down. He had to replenish energy. Tomorrow he still had to go to the county seat and wait for the result.

At night the wind picked up, rattling the broken window. He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself, used his backpack as a pillow, and propped his left foot up against the wall to help the blood return. In the dark the pain was magnified. But he did not avoid it. He only listened to his own breathing. One. Two. Three.

At three in the morning, he woke. Heat burned in his left foot. In the dark, he switched on the flashlight. A pale yellow fluid had seeped out along the edge of the gauze. No odor. No violent swelling. Normal seepage. He changed the dressing again. His movements were practiced. No panic.

At dawn, six o’clock, he packed his bag. He folded the shirt again, put on his old jacket, and pushed open the door. Cold air rushed at his face. He drew in a deep breath and set out toward the county seat.

At the bus stop, the first morning bus had not yet arrived. He stood beneath the sign and watched headlights cut through the morning fog.

At 7:20, the bus pulled in. He swiped his card, dropped in coins, found a seat by the window, and stretched out his left leg to avoid pressure on the wound.

At 8:40, near County No. 1 High School, he got off and walked to the bulletin board beneath the academic affairs building. Several people were already gathered there. He pushed in and let his eyes move over the red notice sheet.

His name was not on it. Absent from the first mock exam. Treated as a zero. His name sat in the last column, beside a red stamp reading absent.

He looked at it for a while, then turned and left. No pause. No visible shift in emotion. The absence was already a fixed fact. The red stamp was only confirmation. He did not need to explain himself to anyone. He did not need to prove anything to himself either.

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 have been released. You have qualified for the interview. Please report to Room 301, Administrative Building, main campus, at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow (Friday). Anyone more than 15 minutes late will be treated as having withdrawn. In addition: the interview includes spoken English and professional questioning. Please wear formal attire and bring your admission ticket, original ID card, and original high school transcript.”

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Tomorrow. 8:30. Arrive half an hour early.

He opened the ledger and wrote under Transportation: -4. Balance: 0.1.

Shoe polish. Spare gauze. Bus fare. 0.1 yuan. Exactly at the edge of survival.

He put away the phone and looked up at the sky. The clouds were thick. The wind carried the smell of rain.

Then he started walking toward the street corner. Shoe polish cost two yuan. He felt in his pocket. Two one-yuan coins remained from yesterday’s change. Together with the 0.1, that made 2.1 exactly.

He went into a hardware store and bought the cheapest bottle of black shoe polish. 1.8. Balance: 0.3.

Back in the boiler room, he took off his old sneakers. The uppers had been worn so badly that parts had faded white. He unscrewed the shoe polish, dipped an old toothbrush into it, and spread it evenly over the surface. Wait for it to dry. Buff with a soft cloth. Once. Twice. The shoes recovered a little sheen. Old, but clean.

He put them on and stood. Took two steps. The soles brushed against the ground with a faint rustling sound.

That afternoon he sat in the boiler room and arranged his materials. Admission ticket. ID card. Copy of his transcript. Shirt. Trousers. Shoes. Everything laid out in order like soldiers in formation.

The phone vibrated again. This time it was a call from his homeroom teacher.

He looked at the screen and did not answer. He let the ringtone echo through the empty boiler room. Three rings. Five. Ten. Then it disconnected on its own.

He knew what the teacher wanted to ask. Missing the first mock exam. Interview at Provincial Tech. Two roads. The school wanted him back in the classroom. He had chosen the provincial capital. There was no right or wrong in it. Only tradeoffs.

He did not need to explain. Explanations consumed energy. His energy had to be saved for tomorrow.

That night he lay down early. His left foot still burned, but he was used to it now. He set the alarm for five in the morning.

He closed his eyes. Darkness came down.

In his mind, he ran through tomorrow’s route once. Up at five. Wash. Change clothes. Catch the bus at six. Reach the provincial capital by seven-thirty. Arrive at the main campus by eight-twenty. Report in at eight-thirty.

Every point on the route, precise to the minute.

The wind died. The boiler room grew very quiet. Only his own breathing remained.

Tomorrow would be the second gate.

He did not know what lay behind it. But he knew this much: as long as the marks were still there, the road could still be walked.

At 4:50 in the morning, the alarm had not yet gone off when he woke on his own.

He sat up. His left foot touched the ground. The pain was clear, but he could walk.

He put on the pale blue shirt and buttoned every button. The collar stood firm. The cuffs were smooth.

He picked up his backpack and pushed open the door.

The morning fog had not yet lifted. The street was empty.

He stepped forward and walked into the mist.

The Nokia in his pocket suddenly vibrated. The screen lit beneath the dim streetlamp.

Not a text message. A call.

Caller location: provincial capital.

He stopped. His thumb hovered over the answer key.

The fog hung low. Wind moved through the empty street.

He pressed answer and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello.”

A woman’s voice came from the other end, speaking fast, cold with bureaucratic efficiency.

“Student Lin Chen? Provincial Institute of Technology admissions office. There is one item missing in the preliminary review of your interview materials. Your original high school transcript does not bear an official seal. Please submit a properly stamped transcript to Room 301, Administrative Building, by 10:00 this morning. Failure to do so will result in cancellation of your interview eligibility.”

Lin Chen’s thumb tightened slightly.

The transcript. What he had was only a copy. The original was with his homeroom teacher. Getting it sealed meant going through the academic affairs office. Today was Friday. The office opened at nine. Stamping would take time. Deadline: ten.

Time window: two hours.

Distance: one hundred twenty kilometers.

He lowered his eyes to his left foot. Beneath the gauze, the wound gave a faint throb.

“Understood,” he said, his voice steady.

He hung up, opened the ledger, and wrote on a fresh page:

“04:55. Sudden variable: transcript requires seal. Deadline: 10:00. Route reconstruction. Risk: extremely high.”

He closed the ledger and looked ahead. The fog was beginning to thin.

Next step: go back to school. Next step: find the homeroom teacher. Next step: get that sheet of paper stamped within two hours.

He quickened his pace, no longer hesitating.