Chapter 130: The Scale and the Margin

8:42.

The minibus rolled over the speed bump at the provincial capital's passenger station, and the whole body of the vehicle dropped hard. Lin Chen opened his eyes. The digital clock on the dashboard was ticking forward. Two minutes behind the original plan. He picked up his backpack, hugged the document pouch to his chest, and stood. His left foot hit the ground; the tape around his ankle had already come loose, and the edge of the gauze rubbed against the side of his shoe, sending up a dull throb. He didn't stop. He pushed out of the bus with the flow of passengers.

The air in the provincial capital was heavier than in the town, thick with exhaust and the greasy smoke from breakfast stalls. He stood beneath the station sign and checked the route again. North Campus, Experimental Building B. Three kilometers. No direct bus. Forty minutes on foot. Margin: negative twelve. He opened his ledger, crossed out "Transfer to Bus No. 3," and wrote: "Walk. Pace: six minutes per kilometer. Stride length: seventy centimeters. Center of gravity shifted right." He closed the notebook and started forward.

First step: pain. Second step: adaptation. Third step: rhythm. He walked along the edge of the sidewalk, avoiding puddles, tactile paving, and crowds. His left foot bore almost no weight at all; his right leg and core did nearly all the work of dragging him forward. The rubber soles of his shoes rasped softly against the asphalt. He deliberately compressed his breathing into a pattern of two inhales, one exhale. Heart rate controlled at one hundred and ten beats per minute. This was the optimal solution he had already worked out in his notebook of corrected mistakes. No running. Running would accelerate the seepage, break his breathing, and drain the energy he needed that afternoon. Walk. Walk fast. Keep it even.

9:01. South Gate of Provincial Polytechnic. He swiped through the temporary visitor lane. The security guard glanced at his admission ticket and filing receipt, then waved him through. The campus was enormous. The plane trees were just beginning to leaf out. He followed the signs north. The signposts grew denser and denser. Experimental Building B was in the northwest corner. 9:07. He turned into a tree-lined path. 9:09. A red-brick building came into view. More than twenty people were already lined up outside. The queue inched forward.

He took his place at the end. Set his backpack down and leaned it against the wall. His left foot hung suspended, his toes barely touching the ground. He pulled a compressed biscuit from his pocket, tore open the wrapper, and took a small bite. Dry flour crumbs stuck in his throat. He twisted open his water bottle and took a sip. The water was cold. It slid down his esophagus and pressed down the spasms in his stomach. He closed his eyes and silently ran through the procedure: verification. Submit documents. Stamp. Receipt. Exit. Return trip. Enter station. Get off. Walk. Enter exam room. Receive papers. Answer questions. He reviewed every single node in his head. No surprises. Only execution.

9:15. The line had moved forward five meters. He opened his eyes. 9:20. His turn.

A middle-aged woman with glasses sat behind the window, an ID badge on her chest that read "Admissions Verification."

"Documents," she said flatly.

Lin Chen handed over the file pouch. ID card. Admission ticket. Provincial Polytechnic interview confirmation letter. Photocopy of his transcript. Deferred-exam filing receipt.

She checked them one by one. Her finger drew little ticks across the form. When she turned to the deferred-exam receipt, she paused. "Stamped by County No. 1 High's Academic Affairs Office?"

"Yes. Signed by my homeroom teacher. Filed with the principal's office," Lin Chen replied, voice steady.

She looked up at him. Her eyes landed on his pale lips and the cold sweat on his forehead. She asked no more questions. She picked up the stamp. With a sharp clack, the bright-red VERIFIED landed in the lower right corner of the confirmation letter. She handed him the receipt. "The system closes before two this afternoon. If you're late, it's void."

"Understood." Lin Chen accepted it with both hands. The paper was faintly warm. He turned and left the window.

9:22. Mission complete. Margin: negative ten. He had to get back to the passenger station. The intercity express at 11:30. He glanced at his watch. There was enough time, but the route had to be compressed. He quickened his pace. All his weight shifted entirely onto his right leg. The gauze around his left foot had already been soaked through with sweat, and the edge of the tape had curled up, rubbing his skin raw. Every step felt like landing on broken glass. He didn't look down. He only adjusted his breathing. Two inhales, one exhale. Faster cadence. Pace up to five and a half minutes per kilometer.

9:45. Back at the south gate. Out through the exit. He tried to flag down a ride. No taxis. He waited three minutes. An empty motorized tricycle stopped beside him.

"Passenger station. Five yuan," the driver said.

"Three," Lin Chen answered.

"Four at the very least. Gas prices are climbing these days."

"Three fifty. Cash now." Lin Chen pulled out his change. Three one-yuan notes and one fifty-cent coin.

The driver looked at him, then nodded. "Get on."

The carriage jolted all the way. Lin Chen leaned against the side panel. His left foot had gone completely numb. Only numbness and a dim swelling ache remained. He closed his eyes and checked the ledger in his mind. Transportation cost: 3.5 yuan. Balance: 3.8 yuan. Time: 9:52. Margin: negative eight. He opened his eyes and stared at the road ahead. Traffic lights. Crosswalks. Streams of vehicles. Everything moved along the predetermined track.

10:05. Passenger station. He paid and got down, limping into the waiting hall. There was a line at the ticket counter. He went to the self-service machine instead. Swiped his ID card. Printed the ticket. Departure: 11:20. He found a corner and sat down. Hugged the backpack to his chest. From inside he took out iodine swabs and fresh gauze. He tore off the tape. The wound had turned whitish. The edges were slightly red and swollen. There wasn't much seepage, but the skin was taut. He cleaned it with the cotton swab and wrapped it again. The tape went on tight, biting into the flesh. The pain was sharp, but it fixed the joint in place. He bit his lower lip and made no sound.

11:15. The station broadcast came on. "Intercity express to the county now boarding. Passengers, please line up and board in order."

He stood up. His left foot touched the ground. A wave of dizziness hit him. He grabbed the wall. Took three deep breaths. The dizziness receded. He stepped forward toward the gate. Ticket out. The turnstile gave a beep. He climbed the steps, found a window seat, and sat. The document pouch rested on his knees.

The doors shut. The engine roared. The bus pulled out of the station. The cityscape outside began to slide backward. He closed his eyes and silently recited the next node: 1:40 PM, arrive at the county passenger station. Walk back to school. 2:00 PM, enter the exam room. Receive the papers. Answer questions. Margin: fifteen minutes. If traffic in the provincial capital clogged up, the margin dropped to zero. But the probability was below ten percent. He had already checked traffic records for the past three months of Wednesdays. No major accidents. Route feasible.

His phone vibrated. A new text message. Sender: Lao Zhou. "For this afternoon's Chinese paper, don't let the essay drift off topic. Stay steady."

Lin Chen replied: "In position. Will enter the exam hall on time."

He put the phone away and looked out the window. Sunlight pierced through the cloud cover and flashed harshly across the asphalt. The bus accelerated on the national highway. Wind poured in through the half-open window, carrying the warmth of early spring. He didn't know what the exam hall would be like that afternoon. He didn't know whether the injury in his left foot would suddenly spasm while he was writing. He didn't know whether Provincial Polytechnic's verification result would affect his state of mind.

He only knew the bus was already moving. There was no road back.

He slipped his hand into the backpack and touched the verification receipt stamped with red ink. The paper was rough. The ink pad's impression rose slightly from the surface.

He tucked it into his notebook of corrected mistakes and closed it.

1:35. The bus entered the county ring road. Traffic thickened on the overpass. Lin Chen checked his watch: five minutes earlier than expected. He let out a breath. But then his phone vibrated again. This time it was a mass notification from the school clinic: "This afternoon's first mock exam session has been temporarily moved to the third floor of the Experimental Building. The original teaching building is closed for electrical maintenance. Candidates, please proceed by the new route. Late arrivals will be treated as absences."

Third floor of the Experimental Building. Eight hundred meters from the original exam room. Forty-two steps.

Lin Chen stared at the screen. His breathing stopped for a beat.

He opened the ledger, crossed out "2:00, enter exam room," and wrote: "2:05, Experimental Building, third floor. Margin: negative three."

The bus was still moving. The buildings outside were drawing closer. He gripped the handrail, his knuckles whitening.

The route had changed. But the scale remained.

He lowered his head and recalculated.

1:42. The bus came to a stop. He grabbed his backpack and limped off. The wind at the county passenger station was harsher than in the provincial capital, blowing dust straight into his face. He didn't linger. He headed down the familiar streets toward County No. 1 High. He pushed his cadence to the maximum. His left foot was completely numb now, like a rigid wooden stick jamming into the ground. Each step forced the knee to compensate. The muscles in his thigh had begun to burn. He ignored it and fixed his eyes on the road ahead.

1:58. County No. 1 High, south gate. The security guard recognized him and didn't stop him. He crossed the athletic field. The Experimental Building stood on the north side, red-brick exterior, three stories high. He looked up once. Stairs. Forty-two steps. He drew in a deep breath and started climbing.

First step. Pain. Tenth step. Panting. Twentieth step. Sweat slid from his temple into his eyes. He blinked once. Didn't stop. Thirtieth step. One corner of the tape on his left foot split loose. The gauze scraped against the edge of the stairs. He clenched his teeth, leaned his center of gravity forward, and drove upward with his right leg.

Forty-second step. He reached the third-floor corridor. 2:04.

He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. His lungs felt packed with sandpaper. He took out his admission ticket and checked the room number. 307. End of the corridor. He walked there and pushed the door open.

The classroom was already full. The air smelled of carbon ink and old test papers. The proctor stood on the lectern checking the roster. Lin Chen walked to his seat, put down the backpack, and sat. His left foot hung suspended. He tore open the spare tape and secured the loose gauze again. The movements were light. He made no sound.

2:09. The proctor began handing out the papers.

"ID card and admission ticket on the corner of the desk. Hand up your deferred-exam filing receipt for verification."

Lin Chen passed the materials forward. The teacher glanced at them, stamped them, and returned them.

"Don't touch your pen before the bell. Check the question numbers carefully. Don't fill in the answer sheet wrong."

Lin Chen nodded. Both hands rested flat on the desk. His fingertips were cool. He closed his eyes and adjusted his breathing. Two inhales, one exhale. His heart rate gradually came down. The pain retreated into the background. In his mind there was nothing left but the page. Words. Logic. Procedure.

2:15. The bell rang.

He opened his eyes and turned over the paper. First page. Modern Chinese reading.

The question text was printed on coarse recycled paper, the ink slightly blurred.

He picked up his 2B pencil. The tip hovered above the answer sheet.

For one second, it paused.

Then it came down.