The campus was unusually quiet for a September afternoon.
The sun was still scorching.
Sunlight blanketed the concrete ground, baking the air until it shimmered and warped.
The two rows of French plane trees, usually so proud and imposing, now looked wilted and listless under the sun.
Cicadas still shrieked from the trees, their lives seeming exceptionally long this year.
Their cries came one after another, long and short, grating on the nerves.
The physics department office, located on the shaded side of the first floor of the lab building, was a rare sanctuary from the heat.
It was now the lunch break.
The two tireless old ceiling fans had been turned off, hanging motionless overhead.
The room was so quiet you could hear the CLICK, CLACK of the old-fashioned wall clock in the corner.
Zhou Guoping, better known as Old Zhou, was nestled in his wicker chair.
He wasn’t asleep.
He held a cattail fan, waving it back and forth sporadically.
The edges of the fan were frayed, tied together with a few red plastic strings, and it made a faint WHOOSHING sound as it moved.
On the weathered desk in front of him lay an open copy of *Radio* magazine. Beside it sat a large enamel mug, the tea inside steeped to a deep brown, wisps of steam curling from its surface.
Old Zhou squinted, his mind wandering as he stared blankly into the air.
He was waiting.
Yesterday, he had given the test paper to that kid, Chen Zhuo. Although he’d told him to take it home and give it a try, Old Zhou wasn’t confident at all.
This test was for the school’s internal selection trials. It was meant to find students for a training team to prepare for next March’s National Junior High Applied Physics Competition.
He and a few other veteran teachers in the department had pieced it together from past competition questions and practice exams. It was difficult, designed specifically to screen for the brightest students.
A first-year middle school student—and a nine-year-old one who had skipped grades, at that.
’He’s never even taken a physics class. Even with natural talent and self-study, how could he possibly handle such a comprehensive exam? Would it just be a bunch of scribbles? Or would he get lucky, like a blind cat catching a dead mouse?’
Old Zhou lifted his mug, blew away the tea leaves floating on the surface, and took a slow sip.
Just then, a soft knock came from the office’s slightly warped wooden door.
Old Zhou didn’t even lift his eyelids. Still holding his tea, he answered nonchalantly.
"Come in."
The door was pushed open gently, making only the faint CREAK of its hinges.
It was Chen Zhuo.
He was still in that small-sized school uniform that seemed unique to him, the sleeves rolled up twice. In one hand, he held a rather wrinkled test paper.
A fine layer of sweat beaded on his forehead.
It was so hot outside; the walk from the classroom felt like passing through a sauna.
Chen Zhuo entered the room and gently pulled the door shut behind him.
In that instant, most of the cicadas’ chirping was cut off, and the room returned to its cool, quiet tranquility.
He didn’t speak or look around, walking straight to Old Zhou’s desk.
Old Zhou set down his mug and raised his eyes to glance at him.
"It’s so hot. What are you doing running around instead of taking a nap?"
Old Zhou’s voice was hoarse, tinged with the unique drowsiness and languor of midday.
Chen Zhuo stood by the desk and placed the paper in his hand on Old Zhou’s desk.
"Turning in my test."
It had been folded several times, bulging in the middle with curled edges. It looked like a badly folded crepe, or a wad of scratch paper ready for the trash can.
Chen Zhuo made no attempt to smooth it out.
He just casually placed the unsightly paper on Old Zhou’s desk.
"It’s done,"
Chen Zhuo said.
Old Zhou’s gaze fell upon the paper.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t frown and criticize the messy paper or the boy’s poor attitude like some of the younger teachers might have.
He simply picked up his cattail fan and waved it a couple more times, shooing away the modest amount of heat in the air.
Old Zhou put down the fan and reached out for the test paper.
It felt a little heavy in his hand.
Something was tucked inside it.
Old Zhou pulled out what was inside.
It was a sheet of paper, densely packed with writing.
Densely packed derivations, coordinate systems, vectors, functions...
The office fell silent.
Even the clicking of the wall clock in the corner seemed to have vanished.
Old Zhou stared at the sheet for a full minute.
He didn’t jump up in shock.
He didn’t slam the desk in amazement.
His expression barely even changed.
He just slowly reached out, pulled a cigarette from the pack of Hongtashan on his desk, and stuck it between his lips.
But he didn’t light it.
He just kept it in his mouth, biting down on the filter through the thin paper.
"Do you know what this is?"
Old Zhou finally spoke, pointing first to the jam-packed sheet of white paper, then to the wrinkled test paper beside it.
Chen Zhuo looked at him, his expression calm.
"My work for the solutions."
"Bullshit."
Old Zhou swore.
His voice wasn’t loud, and there was no anger in his tone. Instead, it carried an unidentifiable undertone.
"This is called a saturation attack."
Old Zhou took the cigarette from his mouth and tapped it on the desk, packing the tobacco.
"Using a butcher’s knife to kill a chicken. Using an anti-aircraft gun to shoot a mosquito."
"You brought out calculus just to fill in a blank?"
Old Zhou shook his head, a faint smile slowly appearing on his wrinkled face.
It was the first genuine, heartfelt smile to appear on his face all afternoon—perhaps all week.

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