Chapter 32: Rain Lines and Gradations

Six-thirty. The alarm did not ring. Lin Chen woke on his own.

Outside the window was the sound of rain. Fine. Dense. Unending. Tapping against the glass. No rhythm. Only a continuous white noise. The air was heavy with dampness. The edge of the blanket had turned moist. He opened his eyes. The water stain on the ceiling had spread another ring since yesterday. Like a blurred map. He sat up. The crack in the sole of his foot throbbed beneath the gauze. The pain was still there. But he was used to it now. Like background noise. It did not interfere with judgment. He felt for the canvas bag by the bed. Ledger. Pencil. He crossed out yesterday’s plan and wrote: Day 12. 06:30. Goal: monthly exam. Funds: 1.56. Meal tickets: 0.32. Untouchable. Reserve.

He washed his face with cold water. The water in the tin basin carried a metallic chill. He wrung out the towel. Dragged it over his cheeks. Took away the remnants of sleep. He put on his Liberation shoes. The edges of the soles had already been flattened. The crack avoided the load-bearing point. He leaned his weight forward. Pushed open the door. The corridor floor was terrazzo. Its edges worn smooth with age. Rain slanted in through the window at the far end. Gathered into thin streams across the floor. He walked close to the wall. Avoided the pooled water. In his mind he arranged the time. Building Three to the washroom. Fifty meters. Walking. Two minutes. Washing up. Five minutes. Back to the dorm. Get the lunch tin. To the boiler room. Ten minutes. Seven sharp. Reach the classroom. Morning reading.

The wind crossed the cinder track. Lifted scraps of ash. His fingers froze stiff. His joints turned sluggish. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them in turns. He could not stop. If he stopped, body heat would drop fast. In his head he kept doing the math. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Sixty cents a day. Four days, 2.40. Three-tenths and two left. 0.32. Not enough for a new pencil. Not enough for a bottle of mercurochrome. It could only be kept. For emergencies. He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched that half piece of compressed biscuit. The wrapper had already gone soft. He took it out. Unwrapped it. Broke off a quarter and put it into his mouth. Dry. Rough. It caught in his throat. He walked to the boiler room. Got hot water. Filled the enamel mug. The hot water washed it down. The biscuit crumbs dissolved. Turned to paste. He drank in small sips. Let the water fully enter his stomach. His stomach had something in it now. But it did not hold off hunger. He put a hand on his abdomen. Pressed lightly. Digestive juices secreted. The hunger was pushed down.

Seven sharp. The preparatory bell for morning reading rang.

The flow of people in the corridor began to turn back. Footsteps grew heavier. Voices lowered. Lin Chen slung the canvas bag over his back, pushed open the door, and walked into Class 1-3.

More than thirty students were already seated in the classroom. The fluorescent tubes gave off a faint hum. The air smelled of old books and sweat. He went to the back row by the window. Sat down. Put the canvas bag into the desk compartment. Kept a hand on it. Opened the physics workbook. Turned to problem ten. Read through last night’s solution again. The logic was clear. The steps were complete. He picked up his pencil and wrote in the blank space: Core of the final problem: critical state. Maximum static friction. Simultaneous equations.

Eight o’clock. The class bell rang. The iron clock hammer struck the bronze bell. The sound was dull. Echoing.

The proctor did not come in carrying exam papers. The first person to arrive was an office clerk from Academic Affairs. His raincoat was still dripping. Mud clung to the cuffs of his trousers. He stood at the door and said a few words in a low voice to the homeroom teacher. The teacher frowned, then turned and stepped onto the platform.

“Quiet.”

The sound of morning reading stopped.

“The sealed exam-paper vehicle from the county education bureau has been held up by the rain at North Bridge. The road is not broken, but a tractor is stuck in the low section and the vehicle cannot get through. The monthly exam is postponed by one day. Today we follow a temporary timetable. Tomorrow at eight, the exam begins officially. Seating and exam rules remain unchanged.”

For a moment the classroom was silent. Then chair legs scraped the floor. Some people exhaled. Some complained. Someone laughed and immediately pressed it down.

Lin Chen did not move. He only crossed out “eight o’clock, mathematics” on his scratch paper and changed it to: Postponed one day. Variables: rain. Exam-paper vehicle. North Bridge. The pencil tip paused for a second, then continued downward: Opportunity: one more day. Risk: rhythm loosens. Physical strength drains. Candle reserve insufficient.

One extra day was not free. One extra day meant food. Physical strength. Another twenty-four hours of the crack in his foot holding out. It also meant keeping his mind from scattering.

First period became mathematics. The teacher did not teach new material, only handed out a mid-level practice sheet. Forty-minute limit. Lin Chen pressed the canvas bag against the desk corner to block the cold draft slanting in through the window seam. Rain ran down the glass in lines. The paper was damp; pencil marks came out pale. He placed scratch paper beneath the test sheet, pressed the upper-left corner with his palm, scanned the problems first, then divided the work into blocks.

Fill-ins. Multiple choice. Basics. Finished in twenty minutes. Analytic geometry. He drew axes, marked intersections, wrote equations. Derivatives. He followed last night’s frame: domain, derivative, critical points, endpoints, comparison. No skipped steps. No hurry to write the answer. He used the last five minutes to verify. One sign error. Corrected. Verified again. No mistake.

The bell rang. The boy in the front row turned back and lowered his voice. “One more day. We earned it.”

Lin Chen shook his head. “Not necessarily.”

The boy froze for a moment.

Lin Chen folded the practice sheet and clipped it into the mistake book. “One extra day can make you scatter. Follow the original plan.”

He said it very softly. As if reminding himself.

Second period was physics. When Old Li came in, a wet ring darkened his sleeve cuff. He did not mention the postponement. He only wrote four characters on the blackboard: critical state.

“A paper one day late does not become one day easier.” Old Li turned around, the chalk half-spinning between his fingers. “Today we only discuss one problem. Inclined plane, pulley, light rope. First find the invariant.”

Lin Chen raised his head. The inclined-plane line on the board was thick. The pulley was not perfectly round. But the force points were clear. He split the board work into three columns: known conditions, hidden conditions, target of the solution. Blue for the knowns. Red for hidden conditions. Black for the target. Rain pressed down outside the window. Chalk pulled short white lines across the board.

Halfway through, Old Li suddenly stopped. “The prototype of this problem is from issue four, 1998, of the teaching reference. Did anyone look it up yesterday?”

No one in the room made a sound.

Lin Chen pressed a finger on the edge of his mistake book and did not raise his head.

Old Li glanced at him but did not call his name. He continued. Whole-system method. Virtual displacement as assistance. Critical point. Rope tension equals zero. Every step landed on the few lines Lin Chen had copied from Xinhua Bookstore yesterday. The only difference was that the board work was more standardized and contained fewer detours than his own.

Beside it, he added one sentence: Order: whole-system method first; isolation method for checking; do not reverse them.

At noon, twelve o’clock. The rain had not stopped. The crowd surged toward the cafeteria. Lin Chen waited until the end and avoided the crush. The long bench was cold and damp. He opened the oiled paper package. The rice was cold through, with a hard crust on top. He broke it apart and swallowed it with the free soup, mouthful by mouthful. Clear soup. Faint salt. His stomach had something in it now, but it did not hold off hunger.

The ledger was in the canvas bag. He did not take it out. The numbers were in his mind. Balance: 1.56. Meal tickets for four days. Sixty cents a day. Four days, 2.40. 0.32 left. 0.32. Could not buy a pencil. Could not buy mercurochrome. Could only be kept. For emergencies.

He touched the half piece of compressed biscuit. A quarter had been broken off in the morning; three quarters remained. He could not eat more. It had to be kept for tomorrow morning. If low blood sugar came during the exam, he would soak it in hot water. Half a biscuit could be split into three uses. Not food. Buffer.

Afternoon chemistry. Redox. The teacher added a temporary set of balancing problems. Lin Chen followed the order: mark oxidation states, find rise and fall, balance electrons, check the medium. In acidic conditions add H+. In alkaline conditions watch OH-. He got one wrong. Not because he did not know it, but because he read “dilute sulfuric acid” as “aqueous solution.” Beside the error he wrote: Circle the medium before writing. On rainy days the paper is damp and the writing is pale; read slower.

Evening self-study. Eighteen-thirty. The classroom was full. The fluorescent tubes hummed. The rain had weakened; the wind remained. Lin Chen finished the day’s work and looked at the clock. Twenty-one hundred. Thirty minutes until lights-out. He did not do new problems. He only turned through the last page of mistakes for mathematics, physics, and chemistry, writing one sequence for each.

Mathematics: domain first.

Physics: whole-system method first, isolation method for checking.

Chemistry: circle the medium first.

Twenty-one thirty. The lights-out bell rang. The corridor darkened all at once. Footsteps, washing noises, voices. Lin Chen waited. Counted to one hundred. The sounds thinned. He pushed open the door and walked close to the wall to the stairwell. Between the fourth and fifth floors, the ventilation window faced north. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp. He squatted down, spread the cardboard to block the wind, struck a match, and lit the candle.

The flame was shorter than last night. Only a little more than one centimeter of candle remained. It could not burn for forty-five minutes.

He placed the watch on his knee. Ten minutes. Verify only one final physics problem. The problem was already familiar. The steps did not need to be many; they needed to be in order. Whole-system method to set up equations. Isolation method to reverse-check. Mass ratio m1/m2 = √3. Eight and a half minutes. One and a half left. Check symbols. Units. No mistake.

He blew out the candle. He did not light it a second time.

Back in the dorm, he took off his shoes and untied the gauze. The edges of the crack had turned white. Tissue fluid had seeped out, but there was no pus. Mercurochrome on the cotton swab sent a sting all the way into the sole of his foot. He held his breath, spread it evenly, and wrapped it again. Slow movements. Steady movements.

After lying down, he felt for the ledger. The pencil moved across the paper.

Day 12. 22:05. Rain delay. Progress: one mid-level mathematics set; reordered physics critical-problem method; one chemistry medium error. Time spent: all day. Status: not scattered. Gap: funds 1.56. Meal tickets 0.32. Candle about 0.5 cm. Countermeasure: monthly exam tomorrow. In the morning split the half biscuit into two portions. In the exam room write name and student number first; easy before hard. Circle the medium first.

The pencil tip paused. He closed the ledger. The page edges curled. He stuffed the ledger into the very bottom of the canvas bag and pressed it down. Did not let it show.

Footsteps came from the corridor. The night-patrol teacher’s flashlight swept past the crack in the door and paused.

“Sleep early. Tomorrow it really starts.” The voice was low, with an echo.

“Got it,” the boy in the lower bunk answered vaguely.

Lin Chen made no sound. He put his hands on his knees and moved them slowly. The pain in the sole of his foot had already gone numb. His body felt hollowed out. But his mind had not scattered.

Outside the window, the rain lines finally broke. Water dripped from the eaves. One drop. Another drop. Like a pendulum.

Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Monthly exam.