Chapter 199: Grayscale and the Long Journey

At six on Saturday morning, gray-blue light seeped through the gap in the curtains of the rental apartment. Lin Chen opened his eyes on time. The numbness in his left ankle had already become normal, like a thick callus wrapped around the bone; only when he put weight on it did a fine, needling pain flare up. He threw back the blanket, but did not get up immediately. First he flexed his toes, making sure the joints were not stiff, and only then slowly slipped his foot into his slippers.

The dual monitors on the desk were still on, the curves on the grayscale monitoring dashboard rising and falling steadily around the baseline. The ticket he had submitted yesterday had already been approved, and five percent of the core traffic pool had been switched onto the new architecture. He sat down and typed a few inspection commands. The logs scrolled past without errors. He picked up the half cup of cold tea left over from the night before and took a swallow. The bitterness slid down his throat and cleared his head.

At seven sharp, he put on his headphones and opened his listening software. The broadcaster’s voice from VOA Slow English filled the cramped room. He repeated after it, lips moving faintly as he corrected every liaison and every stress. The initial screening for the Silicon Valley delegation included a round of technical English interviews. His vocabulary was sufficient, but his spoken reflexes were not. Time was cut into blocks: one hour of listening practice, one hour reviewing the fundamentals of distributed architecture, two hours handling weekend production tickets. The rest was for packing.

The suitcase was one he had bought in college, and its wheels had already gone a little stiff. He stuffed in two changes of clothes, a copy of Computer Systems: A Programmer’s Perspective, several boxes of Xiaoman’s usual anti-epileptic medicine, and a thick household ledger. Turning to the latest page, he checked the numbers: rent paid, 800 yuan reserved for food, 1,200 for Xiaoman’s follow-up exam and medication, 4,000 estimated in advance for visa and travel expenses. Balance on his salary card: 6,300. After deductions, 110 remained. He stared at the number for three seconds, then closed the book. Money was something you calculated, not something you saved your way into. As long as nothing went wrong during the grayscale rollout, next month’s performance rating could hit an A, and the bonus would cover the gap.

That afternoon, he called the Neurology Department at the county hospital to confirm Sunday’s EEG appointment. The receptionist’s voice crackled over the line. “Sunday at nine, Lin Xing, right? Remember to bring the medication records from last time.”

“I’ve got them,” he replied.

After hanging up, he went into the kitchen. Wang Guiying was sorting vegetables, while Lin Jianguo sat on a low stool rubbing his lower back. Lin Chen set the medicine boxes on the table and took out a handwritten note. “Mom, I’m taking Xiaoman for his follow-up tomorrow. Dad’s medicated plaster is in the second drawer—change it once a day. If Xiaoman can’t sleep well at night, add half a clonazepam tablet according to the instructions. Don’t go over the dose.”

Wang Guiying stopped what she was doing and looked at him. “The Silicon Valley thing—is it settled?”

“Not yet. I just signed up.” Lin Chen’s tone was calm. “If I get selected, I’ll leave in late June for about two weeks. I’ve already asked Old Zhou from our hometown to help look after things during that time. I’ll pay him out of the dedicated fund. For the county hospital follow-up, I’ve already arranged with the doctor to move it up to June 10.”

Wang Guiying said nothing, only flicked the water droplets off the vegetable leaves. Lin Jianguo looked up at him, then lowered his head and kept rubbing his back. In the main room, the only sound was water dripping from the tap. Lin Chen knew the silence was not opposition, but calculation. In this family, any long journey meant risk, and he had to break that risk down into executable steps before they could feel at ease.

Early Sunday morning, the long-distance bus rattled and bumped for three hours. The county town still looked familiar, though the roadside signs had changed. The internet café had become a parcel pickup station; the video store was shuttered, with a transfer notice pasted on the door. Pulling his suitcase, limping slightly, Lin Chen walked into the county hospital. The corridor was filled with the mixed smell of disinfectant and old bedding, and every plastic chair in the waiting area was occupied. Xiaoman sat quietly in a corner, holding Wang Guiying’s hand, clutching a dog-eared picture book.

The EEG room door opened. The doctor came out holding the report, his brows faintly furrowed. “The discharge frequency is fifteen percent higher than last time. The abnormal waves in the temporal lobe region have become denser.” He pushed up his glasses. “The current dosage may not be enough anymore. I recommend switching to combination therapy, or going to the city for a long-term video EEG to check for the lesion.”

Lin Chen took the report and scanned the undulating waveforms. The numbers were cold, but what they meant was heavy. Changing medication meant higher costs and more frequent follow-ups; going to the city meant more travel and more uncertainty. He nodded. “Let’s adjust the medication according to your plan first. I’ll arrange the long-term EEG next month.”

The doctor looked at him, asked no further questions, and wrote the prescription. Lin Chen went to pay and pick up the medicine. There was a long line at the pharmacy window. Standing in it, he watched box after box of medicine being passed through the glass while quickly calculating the monthly cost of the new treatment plan. It was 420 yuan more than before. He opened the memo app on his phone and added a new line under “Xiaoman — Dedicated Fund”: “2014.05.18 Medication adjusted. Monthly increase: 420. Source: expected performance bonus.”

On the bus ride back that afternoon, Xiaoman fell asleep against his shoulder. His breathing was steady, though every so often a faint twitch ran through him. Lin Chen did not move. He only pulled his coat a little higher to cover his younger brother’s shoulders. Outside the window, the fields streamed backward like stretched film. He closed his eyes, and what filled his mind was not the waveform chart, but the steady line on the grayscale monitoring panel. Two lines—one falling, one rising. He had to make the rising one move fast enough to hold up the one dropping down.

At eight that night, he returned to the rental apartment. His left foot had already swollen noticeably. He took off his shoe and pressed a hot towel to it. The computer screen glowed as grayscale data began flowing back in. The latency rate climbed from 0.3 percent to 0.8 percent. It was still within threshold, but the trend was wrong. He straightened in his chair and opened the log analysis tool. Tracing the issue to the cache layer, he found a memory leak on one of the edge nodes. He typed out the fix, submitted it, and restarted the service. When the progress bar finished, the curve dropped back down.

At 9:40, he opened the company’s internal system and found the delegation application page. The form was long, requiring project experience, tech stack, proof of English level, and a five-hundred-word statement of purpose. He filled it out word by word, without sentimentality, only facts: participated in three core architecture restructurings, led ETL pipeline optimization, completed self-study in distributed systems, possessed cross-team collaboration experience. In the motivation field, he wrote: “To study AI infrastructure and the path to engineering deployment, feed the lessons back into current latency bottlenecks, and explore the next generation of data processing paradigms.”

He clicked submit. The system prompt read: “Application successful. Initial screening results will be sent by email before May 23.”

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. The hot towel on his left foot had already gone cold. Just as he was about to shut down the computer, his phone suddenly vibrated. It was Wang Guiying.

“Chen.” His mother’s voice was hurried. “Xiaoman just threw up. He vomited everything less than half an hour after taking the medicine. He’s groggy now, and we can’t wake him.”

Lin Chen’s fingers tightened instantly. He stood up, and as his left foot touched the floor, a sharp stab of pain shot through it. “Don’t panic. Lay him on his side first and clear his mouth. I’m checking the county hospital emergency number right now—call them. I’ll buy a ticket back tonight.”

“Tickets are hard to get. The last bus is gone.” Wang Guiying’s voice trembled. “Your father went to borrow a three-wheeler. Don’t panic yet. The doctor said it might be a drug reaction…”

“I found it,” Lin Chen cut in, his tone steady but rapid. “The county hospital emergency number is XXXXXXX. Call them and say the patient is Lin Xing, epilepsy patient, vomiting and altered consciousness after medication. I’m getting transportation now. I’ll be there in three hours. Keep your phone on.”

He hung up. He opened the ticketing app. The nearest overnight coach was at 11:30. He paid and got the ticket. Then he opened the drawer and took out his notebook of mistakes. On the latest page, he wrote: “2014.05.18 Adverse drug reaction. Grayscale rollout latency anomaly fixed. Delegation application submitted. Variables compounding; time weighting must be reassigned.”

The handwriting was neat, without a pause. He closed the notebook and grabbed his coat and backpack. The door lock clicked shut. In the stairwell, the motion-activated lights came on one floor at a time with the sound of his steps. Night wind poured in through the cracks in the windows, carrying the city’s familiar smell of dust. He descended the stairs with a slight limp, but his rhythm never broke.

His phone screen lit up again. Not his mother this time, but a new email. Sender: Technical Committee. Subject: “Notice on the Initial Shortlist and Interview Schedule for the First Overseas Delegation”

He stopped in the dim stairwell. The glow of the screen lit his face. The body of the email contained only one line: “Congratulations. You have passed the initial screening. Your technical interview is scheduled for May 21 at 14:00. Please prepare in advance.”

May 21. Three days from now.

He looked up once toward the exit at the top of the stairs. The night wind had turned colder. Tightening his grip on the phone, he kept walking downward. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of tires rolling over asphalt, like some kind of countdown.