Chapter 181: Thresholds and Margins

The progress bar reached 100%. A green line flashed across the terminal: Done. Output saved to /tmp/result_8000.csv. The roar of the case fan gradually subsided, like wet traces left on the sand after the tide retreats. Lin Chen let go of the Enter key. A thin layer of sweat clung to his fingertips. He pulled out the USB drive and turned the screen toward the other side of the conference table.

Director Li did not look at the result file first. He opened the log instead. He scrolled all the way down—to the exception-capture records, the markers for skipped dirty data, the timing statistics for chunked reads, the comparison of peak memory usage before and after garbage collection. He read for about two minutes, then lightly tapped the tabletop twice with his fingers.

“Memory overflow is normal. Old machines running new logic—nine out of ten people would just yank the power and start over,” he said, closing the laptop and fixing his gaze on Lin Chen’s face. “You used three lines of code as a safety net. But a production environment won’t give you the chance to patch code on the spot. Did you run stress tests before deployment?”

“No. Only on a local virtual machine,” Lin Chen replied evenly. “Stress testing needs a cluster, and I can’t afford to rent one. So I hard-coded the downgrade threshold into the configuration. I’d rather drop edge-case fields than let the process freeze. What the business needs is a result, not a perfect process.”

Director Li nodded and took a printed form from the drawer. The edges of the paper were curled, a sign that it had been photocopied many times. “This branch office in the provincial capital is expanding this year. They’re hiring two backend interns. Base pay is six thousand, eighty percent during probation. No housing. Meal subsidy: three hundred. One day off a week. During project cycles, you follow the iteration schedule—getting off work at two in the morning is common.” He pushed the form across the table and tapped the salary column with a fingertip. “In your current condition, can you take it?”

Lin Chen’s eyes fell on the form. Six thousand. After social insurance deductions and the rent for a tiny room in an urban village, a little over four thousand would remain. Enough for three months of sodium valproate for his younger brother. Enough for next semester’s textbooks. Enough to leave a little buffer for emergencies. But he did not answer at once. He lowered his head and glanced at his left foot. Beneath the cuff of his trousers, the ankle was swollen until it shone. The shoelaces had bitten into the flesh. A dark red ring of blood had seeped through the cuff of his sock. He needed money, but he could not pour his body into the gap to get it.

“Yes,” he said. “But I need two things made clear. First, during probation, is the evaluation based on code output or on online bug rate? Second, if there are consecutive late nights during the project period, is there compensatory time off or a transportation subsidy?”

Director Li smiled, faintly, crow’s-feet pressing into the corners of his eyes. “You’re the first second-tier college student who’s talked to me about evaluation dimensions. The standard is simple: be able to take charge of a module independently and not drag down the main branch’s progress. No comp time, but taxi fares are reimbursed. The internet industry doesn’t keep idle people, and it doesn’t deal in sentiment. If you take it, report next Monday. If you don’t, turn right when you leave today and go hand out résumés at the talent market.”

Lin Chen picked up the pen on the table. The tip hovered above the signature line. In his mind, the ledger flipped rapidly: a balance of 35.3 yuan, the stub of a slow-train ticket, the dorm deposit that would be returned after moving out, his younger brother’s medicine for next month, and the unpaid remainder from Old Zhao. Then he signed his name. The strokes were steady, with no flourish.

“Next Monday, nine in the morning.” He pushed the form back.

Director Li put the form away and handed him a blue access card. “Go register at the front desk. And don’t be late for this afternoon’s practical exam. The company doesn’t hire people who can’t even make it to the test room on time.”

Lin Chen rose. The moment his left foot touched the ground, a sharp stab of pain shot from the sole up into his calf, and the muscle spasmed uncontrollably. He bit down on his back teeth and made no sound. His gait had a limp to it, but his rhythm did not falter. He pushed open the door to Room 302. The air conditioning in the corridor hit him in the face, carrying the smell of old carpet and printer toner. Outside the glass curtain wall, the daylight had already slanted westward. The clouds hung low, like a sheet of gray cloth soaked with water.

The elevator descended. He was alone in the metal car. Leaning against the handrail, he closed his eyes and slowly steadied his breathing. He knew that signing his name was not an ending but the entrance to a different set of rules. Six thousand yuan bought him a ticket in, not security. Before Monday, he had to move out of the dorm, deal with the injury to his foot, and finish the loose ends of the practical exam. Time was a taut string. It could not be allowed to snap.

On the first floor, he swiped open the side door and stepped out to the street. The early autumn wind carried dust and exhaust. Standing beneath the bus stop sign, he pulled out his phone from his backpack. The screen lit up with two unread text messages. One was from Academic Affairs: “A backup exam room has been opened. Please sign in before 13:50.” The other was from Old Zhao: “Data accepted. Final payment tomorrow. If there’s more work next time, I’ll come straight to you.”

Lin Chen stared at Old Zhao’s message. Final payment. He ran the numbers. With that and the internship salary, his cash flow could barely turn positive. He replied: “Got it. Next time send the format template in advance.”

The bus pulled into the station. He dropped in his fare, tapped his card, and went to sit in the last row. The cityscape outside the window slid backward like skipped frames in a log. He took out his notebook and opened to a fresh page. He wrote: 2010.10.15 Initial screening at Provincial Institute of Technology passed. Joining the provincial-capital branch. Evaluation standard: independent module ownership. Risks: foot injury / cash-flow chain / practical exam wrap-up. Next steps: move out, buy medicine, get the practical fully running.

The pen paused. He added one more line: Do not chase perfection. Chase usability.

When the bus reached the stop, he stood. His left foot faltered when it touched the ground, and he steadied himself by grabbing the back of a seat. Across from the platform stood the campus hospital. He glanced at the time: 13:35. Fifteen minutes left. He adjusted his breathing and climbed the steps. His reflection showed in the glass doors—thin, but upright. The smell of disinfectant mixed with the damp mildew in the corridor and rushed toward him. He walked to the triage desk and handed over his student ID.

“My left foot is sprained. Prescribe some topical medicine and bandages. I just need to be able to walk,” he said.

The nurse looked up at him, asked nothing more, and lowered her head to fill out the form. Leaning against the wall, Lin Chen took half a compressed biscuit from his pocket and slowly chewed it to pieces. He knew tomorrow would not be any easier. But at least he had secured the next ticket. And the destination of that ticket had never been set by anyone else. It was something he would carve out himself, step by step.