Coming Ashore

The inspiration came from Teacher Liu Zhenyun's Tapu.

"They all wanted to come ashore, but the shore had room for only one."

1. The Training Class

I went to the county seat for a civil service exam training class in March.

The weather wasn't hot yet. Walking out of the bus station in the morning, the wind made my face a little cold. The county was called Qinghe—a nice name, but the river wasn't green. It ran south of town, shallow, with plastic bags and vegetable leaves floating in it. At the bridgehead was a steamed bun shop. When they opened the steamer, white vapor rose and covered the billboard. The billboard read:

One choice changes a lifetime.

Below it was an enrollment ad for Ding'an Education. In the photo, several young people in white shirts stood at the county government gate, smiling in unison. Each held a red admission notice. Whether the notices were real I didn't know. The smiles were fake.

I had come because of that ad.

After leaving the army I worked two years as a security guard in the city, then followed someone to Shenzhen and spent half a year as a warehouse clerk. The warehouse was in Longgang. They were still unloading at midnight. When the forklift lights hit, people looked as if they were standing in fog. Later my mother called and said my father's back was bad, nobody was tending the fields, come home. So I came back.

Back home there wasn't much to do. Village people saw me and asked, "Back to take the civil service exam?"

I said, "We'll see."

They said, "You were a soldier. You've got an advantage."

I said, "What advantage?"

They said, "You can endure hardship."

It didn't sound like praise. People who can endure hardship often just have no other rice to eat.

On March 15 I paid 7,800 yuan and entered Ding'an Education's closed-door crash course. Of that money, 3,000 was my own savings, 2,000 from my mother, 1,500 borrowed from my second sister, and the remaining 1,300 from my father selling two sheep. The day the sheep were sold, my father said nothing, just smoked in the yard. Halfway through the cigarette he said:

"If you pass, our family will have someone on the shore too."

I asked, "What shore?"

He said, "That's what they all say."

So I understood: I hadn't come to take an exam. I had come to come ashore.

Ding'an Education was on the third floor of the old movie theater. The theater had closed years ago. The first floor was rented to a supermarket, the second was a pool hall, the third partitioned into classrooms. The stairs were narrow. The walls were covered with slogans:

An hour of practice today, any post you want tomorrow.

Shenlun isn't composition. It's bureaucratic thinking.

If you don't work hard, someone else will come ashore in your place.

See enough of these and you start to have an illusion: that there really is a river in front of the county government, us on this side, people with authorized posts on the other. Grit your teeth and swim across, and you get another way of living.

There were forty-two of us in the class. The homeroom teacher was surnamed Hou, twenty-seven or twenty-eight, wearing dress pants, shoes polished bright, hair always combed back. He had us call him Teacher Hou. He'd taken the exam himself the year before last and failed. Then he joined the training company and became a teacher. He said this was called saving the nation by a roundabout route.

On the first day Teacher Hou stood at the podium, slapped the desk, and said:

"Classmates, from today on, forget your past. Forget unemployment, forget quitting with nothing lined up, forget failing the graduate exam, forget failed relationships, forget the cold looks from your family. There is no past here. Only scores."

A fat guy asked, "Teacher Hou, can I forget my credit card?"

Everyone laughed. Teacher Hou laughed too. "You can't forget the credit card. Overdue payments affect the political review."

Nobody laughed anymore.

I sat in the third row by the window. The advantage of the window was you could see the bun shop at the bridge below. The disadvantage was wind coming through the cracks, making your knees cold. In front of me was a girl, hair tied low, a thin back, wearing a washed-out blue jacket. She arrived early. On her desk: materials, a pencil case, a thermos, and a small bag of steamed buns.

Her name was Lin Xiaoman.

I heard it during roll call. Teacher Hou called: "Lin Xiaoman."

She stood up. "Here."

The voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. Like pulling a thread taut across the room.

Lin Xiaoman was from Taoling Township under Qinghe County. Her home was more than forty li from the county seat. She stayed in the girls' dorm behind the training class. The dorm was a civilian house Ding'an had rented, eight to a room, bunk beds, four hundred a month. She'd applied for a comprehensive township post. One opening. Restrictions: bachelor's degree, Chinese language, Party member; no restriction on being a fresh graduate or having two years of grassroots experience. The post looked heavily restricted, but more than a hundred people still registered.

I applied for the special post for veterans. Two openings. Everyone said I had an advantage. I later learned that "advantage" meant: fewer people competing, but everyone thought that.

The first week was Xingce.

The most annoying part of Xingce was quantitative reasoning. I'd calculated ammunition in the army; I could do plus, minus, times, and divide. But quantitative reasoning wasn't arithmetic. It was the question-setter picking a fight with you. Chickens and rabbits in a cage, work-rate problems, permutations and combinations, shortest paths—like a swarm of flies around your brain.

I was slow. Often others had turned the page while I was still looking for the rabbit's feet in the first problem.

Lin Xiaoman was fast. She wrote small, her papers clean. In every mock exam, her Xingce was in the top three. Once I saw her error notebook, dense with red-pen annotations. I said:

"That's more detailed than the teacher's handouts."

She glanced back. "I'm slow-witted. I can only write more."

I said, "If you're slow-witted, what are the rest of us?"

She thought a moment. "The civil-service-exam masses."

I laughed.

She smiled a little too. That was the first time I saw her face clearly. She wasn't especially pretty. Her skin was a bit pale, the kind of pale from never seeing the sun. Eyes not large, but bright. When she smiled her mouth moved just slightly, as if even smiling was something she used sparingly.

From that day I started talking to her.

Most of what we said had to do with the exam.

I asked, "How can you look at the last data-analysis question and know it's C?"

She said, "Not one look. Two hundred practice questions before that."

I said, "How do you start a Shenlun essay?"

She said, "Don't open with 'The ancients said.' You're not an ancient."

I asked, "Do you have to wear a suit for the interview?"

She said, "Pass the written test first."

She wasn't polite, but she didn't make you feel bad. Like a kitchen knife cutting tofu: the blade is fast, the tofu stays whole.

Days at the training class were simple. Up at 6:30, in the classroom by 7:30. Xingce in the morning, Shenlun in the afternoon, practice questions at night. At noon everyone went downstairs for a set meal, twelve yuan for two meats and one vegetable. They said two meats; really it was one meat and one that resembled meat. The slices were thin enough to see through. The fat guy said:

"If this meat gets any thinner, it can apply for World Heritage status."

We all laughed. Lin Xiaoman didn't. She picked the meat out of her dish, put it on the lid of her lunch box, and ate it last. Later I learned it wasn't that she didn't like meat. She couldn't bear to eat it too soon.

Sometimes I bought two marinated eggs and gave her one. At first she refused. "I have some."

I said, "I don't like the yolk."

She said, "Then buy dried egg."

I said, "The stall doesn't sell it."

She looked at me and took the egg. The next day she brought me a steamed bun. Her mother had steamed it at home, with sweet potato inside, sweet. She said:

"For yesterday's egg."

I said, "That egg was three yuan."

She said, "The bun is also three yuan."

I said, "There's no three-yuan bun in the county seat."

She said, "This is Taoling Township exclusive."

So I ate it.

Later we often ate lunch together. It wasn't arranged. When it was time to eat, she went downstairs, I went downstairs. Wherever she sat, I sat. The fat guy saw it. "You two teaming up to come ashore?"

Lin Xiaoman said, "He's holding me back."

I said, "She's carrying me."

The fat guy said, "Then take me when you fly. I'm a bit heavy, but my heart is sincere."

There were many others in the class. Some had been taking the exam for three years, some had just graduated, some listened to lectures while looking after kids. The most diligent was a thirty-six-year-old woman everyone called Sister Zhou. She'd been a cashier at a supermarket. Her child was in elementary school. She said she didn't need a county-level post; township was fine, as long as there were the five insurances and one fund. Her husband drove a truck and was rarely home. She said:

"I never wanted to be an official. I just want a work unit that pays my medical insurance."

That was more solid than all of Teacher Hou's motivational talk.

The Shenlun teacher was surnamed Bai, brought in from the provincial capital. Teacher Bai had a system. He said the most important thing in Shenlun was stance.

"What's stance? It means you're standing on the third floor of an old movie theater, but when you write, you have to stand in the fifth-floor conference room of the county Party committee building."

Someone asked, "Teacher Bai, what's on the fifth floor?"

Teacher Bai said, "Assume it's a conference room."

He taught us to write: "Grassroots governance requires the skill of embroidery." He taught us to write: "No matter of the people's livelihood is small; every branch and leaf concerns the heart." He also taught us not to write human speech, but materials speech. Because an exam isn't a conversation. In conversation you tell the truth. In an exam you say the matching words.

Lin Xiaoman listened very carefully. She had a dedicated Shenlun notebook. On the cover two characters: Ashore. The characters were upright, stroke by stroke. Looking at those two words, something moved in me. I asked her:

"Do you really want to come ashore that badly?"

She said, "Who doesn't?"

I said, "And after you come ashore?"

She kept writing, didn't answer right away. After a while she said:

"Come ashore first. When you're in the water, you can't think about what's on the shore."

I remembered that sentence.

Mid-April, our first full mock exam.

It rained that morning, not hard, fine as sifting flour. The classroom smelled of damp. Teacher Hou had everyone turn in their phones and sit by admission ticket number. Lin Xiaoman sat to my left front. Before the exam started she looked back at me.

"If you can't do quantitative, skip it."

I said, "What if I can do them all?"

She said, "Then you're the talent the country needs."

I did poorly. Xingce only 58. Lin Xiaoman 72. Teacher Hou posted the scores on the wall, a red list. Lin Xiaoman third, me twenty-ninth. My name sat between two strangers', like a grain of sand.

That night I didn't eat. I stood alone by the bridge. The water below was black. The bun shop was closed, steamers upside down on the counter. Lin Xiaoman appeared beside me I don't know when.

She said, "One mock exam doesn't count."

I said, "Maybe I'm really not cut out for this."

She said, "Who's born cut out for it? In the army, did you hit ten rings the first time you shot?"

I said, "First time I missed the target."

She said, "And later?"

I said, "Later I hit ten rings too."

She said, "There you go."

I said, "But an exam is different."

She said, "It's the same. Don't kill yourself off first."

She said it lightly, but when I heard it, it felt like someone had cupped a hand under my heart.

2. The Third Floor of the Old Movie Theater

From that day she started helping me with wrong answers. Every night after self-study, others left one by one; we still sat in the classroom. The third floor of the old theater was very quiet at night. From the pool hall below came the occasional crack of ball on ball, a thud, like someone downstairs knocking on the door of fate.

She explained data analysis, main-idea questions, Shenlun summarization. She said my biggest problem wasn't not knowing how. It was being in a hurry. The question not finished and I was already choosing; the material not fully read and I was already writing. She said:

"You always feel life is rushing you. The test paper isn't rushing you."

I said, "Life really is rushing me."

She paused. "Then don't let it rush all the way to the tip of your pen."

She didn't seem twenty-three. Later I understood: people with troubles at home usually age early.

Lin Xiaoman's family was in Shiwan Village, Taoling Township. Her father used to work at the township brick factory. The year before last the factory shut down and he went home to farm. Her mother was in poor health, on medicine year-round. She had a younger brother at a vocational school in the city. After college she worked as a copywriter at an ad company, 3,200 a month. After half a year the boss withheld wages. She quit and came home to take the civil service exam. She said it wasn't that she liked stability. The family needed someone stable.

I asked, "Do your parents support you taking the exam?"

She said, "They support it."

After a moment: "Mostly there's no other way."

I understood that.

We people taking the civil service exam talk about ideals, platforms, serving the grassroots. What we mostly think is: a salary that arrives on time every month, medical insurance that reimburses, rice and oil handed out at New Year, and when relatives ask, you don't lose face. There isn't much dignity in a county town. Civil servant is one kind, teacher is one kind, doctor is one kind, bank is half a kind. Everything else is like a shed put up for the moment. One gust of wind, and you don't know which day it will scatter.

May, the weather grew hot. The classroom AC broke twice. Teacher Hou said he'd get a repairman. The repairman came, looked, said it was an old machine, needed refrigerant. They added refrigerant. The next day it still wasn't cold. Everyone sat inside doing questions, sweat running down their backs. The fat guy said:

"This isn't a coming-ashore class. It's a steamed-bun class."

Lin Xiaoman fanned herself with a book. Fine sweat on her forehead, hair stuck to her face. I pushed my little fan over. She refused. I said:

"I'm not hot."

She looked at my sweat-soaked collar.

"You don't even draft your lies."

But she used it anyway.

In that period we grew a little closer.

How close? No holding hands, no saying we liked each other. Just: when her cup was empty I'd fill it; when I couldn't do a question she'd push her notebook over; at lunch she'd pick the peppers she wouldn't eat onto my plate, I'd pick the meat slices from my bowl onto hers. We walked the county streets together, not fast. She said the county hadn't changed much. I said I rarely used to come. She pointed out which bookstore used to sell pirated workbooks, which milk-tea shop used to be a photo studio, which alley led to the market.

Once after evening self-study we passed the civil affairs bureau. The gate was shut. A red plaque hung at the entrance. The fat guy walked ahead:

"When I come ashore, the first thing I'll do is get married."

Sister Zhou said, "Find someone first."

The fat guy said, "With an authorized post, you still worry about no one wanting you?"

Lin Xiaoman said, "You're overthinking it. An authorized post just takes you from nobody wanting you to somebody considering it."

Everyone laughed.

I asked her, "What about you? First thing after coming ashore?"

She said, "Take my mom to a better hospital."

I said, "Second?"

She thought. "Buy my own desk."

I said, "That's it?"

She said, "Mm. At home the table is for eating, writing, medicine, and chopping chicken. I want a table that's only for writing."

I suddenly felt a desk was rarer than a house.

3. Scores

Written exam in June.

The test site was County No. 1 High School. That day many people wore white shirts, like a crowd going to a wedding. At the gate: parents, training companies handing out flyers, people selling water, traffic police. Teacher Hou stood at the entrance giving us chocolate, said it was for energy. Teacher Bai messaged the group: Stay calm, answer according to the rules, may your name be on the golden list.

Lin Xiaoman wore a white short-sleeve shirt, a black bag on her back. She saw me.

"Admission ticket?"

I said, "Got it."

"ID?"

"Got it."

"Pens?"

"Got it."

"Quantitative reasoning?"

"Planning to give up."

She laughed. "Good. Knowing yourself is also a skill."

Before we entered she stuffed a mint into my hand.

"If you get sleepy."

I said, "What about you?"

She said, "I have one."

Later I learned she only had one.

Two days of exams. Xingce the first day, Shenlun the second. Coming out, everyone was comparing answers. Some said easy, some said hard, some said they were done for. It's like this every year. People who say easy don't necessarily do well. People who say they're done for aren't necessarily done. Fate is sometimes like a multiple-choice question. A, B, C, and D all look wrong, but one of them always counts as right.

I felt better than the mock. Lin Xiaoman also said it was okay. When she said "okay," her eyes lit up a little.

Scores came out in early July.

That day I was cutting grass at home. The phone was on the windowsill and buzzed. My mother called from inside: "Is that the scores?"

My hands were full of grass juice. I ran in without washing, opened the link. The page hung for a long time, then a line of text.

I made the interview.

Second for the post.

My mother beside me couldn't read it. "Did you pass?"

I said, "Halfway."

She froze, then smiled, tears coming. "Halfway is good too, halfway is good too."

My father sat in the yard, heard it, didn't come in. He knocked his dry-tobacco pipe against his shoe sole.

"There's still half."

That's how he was. Even when happy he wouldn't be fully happy, afraid heaven would hear and raise the price.

I immediately messaged Lin Xiaoman:

"Did you check?"

She replied after ten minutes:

"Checked."

I asked, "How'd it go?"

She said, "Fifth."

Her post took one person, top three for interview. Fifth meant she didn't make it. Short by 1.8 points.

I stared at the phone, didn't know what to reply. After a while she sent:

"Congratulations."

I said, "Can you still transfer?"

She said, "Depends on the notice."

I said, "There's still the public institution exam."

She said, "Mm."

I said, "Don't rush."

She didn't reply.

The next day I went back to the county seat for interview class. Ding'an Education had a special seven-day interview intensive, 12,000 yuan. Teacher Hou said I was second on the written, I had to enroll, it'd be a waste not to. I said I had no money. Teacher Hou said I could pay in installments. Later I called my second sister. She was silent a while. "I'll transfer you three thousand. Figure out the rest yourself." My father sold another young ox.

The ox kept calling as it was led away. My mother stood in the doorway watching. "That ox was raised well." My father said, "If he passes, he's better than an ox." I didn't know if that was praising me or comforting the ox.

The interview class was still on the third floor of the old theater, but in a bigger classroom. Half the written-exam class was gone. Those who didn't make the interview didn't come. Those who did put on white shirts and started practicing sitting posture, eye contact, gestures. Teacher Hou said the interview was a performance of bureaucratic language: be natural, but not actually natural.

The fat guy also made the interview, third for a post that took one. He said he was just running alongside, but since he was running, the form should look good. Sister Zhou didn't make it, short by three points. She sent a smiley in the group chat: keep working. I never saw her again.

Lin Xiaoman didn't come either.

I messaged her, asked where she was. After a long time she replied:

"Home."

I asked, "Still studying?"

She said, "Yes."

I asked, "Want to come to the county? I'll give you the interview materials."

She said, "No need."

A few days later she messaged:

"Practice the interview well."

I said, "You too. There'll be more chances."

She replied with an "Mm."

That "mm" was very light, like a door left ajar.

Interview class was torment. We practiced until our voices went hoarse. The questions: If a leader assigns you and a colleague a task and the colleague doesn't cooperate, what do you do? If a member of the public becomes agitated at the service window, what do you do? Some say young cadres must both look up at the stars and keep their feet on the ground. What do you think?

I started answering like a person, then unlike a person.

I said, "I will adhere to a people-centered development philosophy, patiently listen to the public's demands, put myself in their place, and communicate proactively."

I said, "I will adjust my mindset, follow arrangements, take initiative, and unite with colleagues."

I said, "The stars represent ideals, the earth represents practice. As a young person of the new era..."

Say it enough and I almost believed it. But lying in the dorm at night I felt empty. Because I'd talked so much about the people, and not a single one of the people knew who I was. I'd talked so much about ideals, and the ideal was only as big as a pay slip.

4. A Hundred Thousand Yuan

Mid-July, a heavy rain one night. The old theater lost power. The classroom went dark. People used phone flashlights. Teacher Hou said class dismissed, make it up tomorrow. The stairwell was packed. Rain poured in through the windows.

Coming downstairs I saw Lin Xiaoman standing at the supermarket entrance.

She held an old umbrella, water dripping from the rim. Thinner than before. The blue jacket replaced by a gray short-sleeve, shoulders even narrower.

I ran over. "What are you doing here?"

She said, "Came to the county to take care of something."

I asked, "What?"

She said, "Nothing."

The rain was heavy. We stood at the supermarket door, next to the cooked-food counter, the smell of braised meat mixed with rain. She looked at the interview materials in my hand.

"How's practice going?"

I said, "Okay."

She said, "You talk like the news now."

I laughed. "Occupational disease kicking in early."

She smiled a little, then stopped.

I said, "Have you eaten?"

She said, "Yes."

I said, "Eat a bit more?"

She said, "I really ate."

When she said "really," I knew it was false.

I took her to the noodle shop at the bridge. Ten yuan a bowl of beef noodles, not much beef, but the soup was hot. At first she only wanted plain noodles. I ordered her beef. She didn't refuse again. When the noodles came she ate with her head down, slowly, but drank most of the soup.

I asked, "Is something going on at home?"

Her chopsticks paused.

"My dad's sick."

My heart sank.

She said her father had collapsed in the fields a few days ago, been taken to the county hospital. The doctor said it was a cerebrovascular problem, needed transfer to the city hospital. The family had no money. Relatives had been asked all around, only a little over 20,000 borrowed. The doctor said treat soon or he might be paralyzed. Her mother cried at the hospital. Her brother came back from school and didn't know what to do.

I asked, "How much is needed?"

She said, "Prepare a hundred thousand first."

A hundred thousand. For some people that's a meal. For us it was a wall. Not high, but you couldn't climb it.

I said, "Medical insurance?"

She said, "It covers part. You have to pay first."

I said, "Relatives?"

She said, "We've borrowed from all of them."

I said, "A loan?"

She said, "The family already has loans."

I had nothing to say. The TV in the noodle shop was on, news about a youth employment service campaign somewhere. The volume was loud, as if speaking specially to us, and as if it had no idea we were sitting there.

After a while I said:

"I still have a little over two thousand."

She shook her head. "No need."

I said, "Take it first."

She said, "Really no need."

I got impatient. "Why do you never need anything?"

She looked up.

"Because even if I used it, it wouldn't be enough."

That sentence stopped me cold.

When the rain stopped it was nearly ten. She said she had to go back to the hospital. I walked her to the bus stop. The last bus hadn't come. Water on the platform, lights shining on it in little patches of brightness.

I said, "What will you do?"

She said, "Think some more."

I said, "The exam?"

She looked at the road.

"Not thinking about that for now."

I said, "You were so close to the interview. Next time you'll make it."

She said, "Next time we still have to eat."

I wanted to say I'd wait for her, don't give up, we'll figure something out together. But those words at my lips were like light paper. When someone's family needs a hundred thousand yuan, you talk to her about the future and she won't be moved, only tired.

The bus came. Before she got on she said:

"Don't let this affect your interview."

I said, "How could it not affect me?"

She looked at me, eyes red, but didn't cry.

She said, "Then pretend you never saw me."

The door closed. She stood inside, umbrella against her leg. I watched the bus pull away, taillights dragging two red lines on the wet road. That day I understood for the first time: some people don't walk away. Life takes them.

The next few days my interview practice was terrible.

Teacher Hou asked, "What's with you? Eyes wandering, content scattered, no presence."

I said, "Didn't sleep well."

He said, "The more critical the moment, the less you can drop the ball. You're not taking this exam alone. There's a family behind you."

He meant to encourage me, but it made it harder to breathe. Because there was a family behind me, and a family behind Lin Xiaoman too. Why did my family push me toward the shore, while hers pressed her under the water?

The day before the interview, Lin Xiaoman suddenly called.

It was the first time she'd called. Before, we only messaged.

It was noisy on the line: people talking, cars, a child crying. She said:

"Interview tomorrow?"

I said, "Mm."

She said, "Sleep early."

I asked, "Where are you?"

She said, "The hospital."

I asked, "How's your dad?"

She said, "He had treatment. Stabilized for now."

I exhaled. "The money's solved?"

Silence on the other end.

She said, "More or less."

I asked, "What does that mean?"

She said, "I'm engaged."

I thought I'd misheard. Fireworks outside? No. Something exploded in my head.

I asked, "To who?"

She said, "Someone from our township. Runs a sand quarry. Surname Zheng."

I knew that man. Zheng Wanshan, thirty-something, divorced, family had money. Most of the gravel for township roads came from him. He drove a black SUV, license plate ending in three eights. Last year when he came back for ancestral rites he donated 20,000 to the ancestral hall. Village cadres praised him on the loudspeaker.

I said, "Do you like him?"

She didn't answer.

I asked again, "Do you like him?"

She said, "He can produce the money."

I said, "We can think of other ways for the money."

She said, "What ways can you think of?"

I couldn't say.

She laughed softly on the phone, not happy, just tired.

She said, "See? You can't think of any either."

I gripped the phone, palms all sweat.

I said, "What about later?"

She said, "Later we'll see."

I said, "Didn't you want to come ashore?"

She said, "My dad comes ashore first."

After that we were both silent.

A long time later she said:

"Do well tomorrow. If you can make it, make it. Don't look back."

I said, "Xiaoman..."

She cut me off:

"It's not that I don't want to take the exam. I can't afford to take it."

The call ended.

I didn't sleep that night. In the dorm the fat guy snored like a broken bellows. I lay with my eyes open, looking at the ceiling. Water stains on it, like a map. No shore on the map, only patches of damp.

Interview the next day.

I wore a white shirt, black pants, borrowed the fat guy's leather shoes. A size too big, walking a bit wobbly. The waiting room was quiet. Everyone reciting templates. Some with eyes closed, lips moving. Some drinking water constantly. A clock on the wall, the second hand loud.

When it was my turn I walked into the room. Seven examiners in front. The one in the middle looked up. "Please sit."

I sat. Opened the question booklet. First question:

"Some say young people facing difficulties must have resilience; others say one should learn to adjust goals according to reality. What do you think?"

I looked at the question and almost laughed.

It was as if Lin Xiaoman had written it.

The approach I'd practiced: first take a position, then analyze, then connect to myself, then talk about implementation. But my head was full of her sentence: It's not that I don't want to take the exam. I can't afford to take it.

The examiners looked at me.

When I opened my mouth my voice was a little hoarse.

I said, "I believe these two statements are not contradictory. Resilience is not stubborn endurance, and adjustment is not giving up. For young people, ideals matter, but reality is not the enemy. Reality is the soil we face every day..."

I paused.

I had meant to say "grassroots work is the same," but somehow it came out:

"Some people don't lack ideals. Life doesn't allow them to realize ideals slowly."

The room was very quiet.

I knew the sentence wasn't bureaucratic enough, wasn't pretty enough. But after saying it I steadied. The rest of the questions I answered smoothly. The public, colleagues, leaders, the grassroots, implementation, feedback—I left none out. Only with every sentence I knew who was standing behind those words.

5. On the Shore

Interview results came out the same day.

I pulled off a comeback. Combined rank first.

Teacher Hou was more excited than I was, sent three firework emojis in the group, then told me to write a prep experience piece. I couldn't write it. He said just write something, highlight Ding'an Education. So I wrote:

"Thanks to all the teachers at Ding'an Education for their help. The preparation process made me realize that persistence and method are equally important."

Teacher Hou said too short. I added:

"May every person who works hard reach their own shore."

Teacher Hou said that line was good, had feeling.

Physical, political review, hiring, one after another. End of August I received notice: assigned to Qinghe County Veterans Affairs Bureau. A small unit, in an old building behind the county government. Dual-support propaganda posters on the stairwell walls, four desks in the office, an old water dispenser.

First day reporting in, the director patted my shoulder. "Young man, work hard. The grassroots need people like you who can endure hardship."

I heard "endure hardship" again.

I smiled. "Thank you, Director."

September, I got my first paycheck, 4,680. After five insurances and one fund, 3,900 in hand. The day it hit the account my mother had me screenshot it. I sent it. She replied with a thumbs-up.

That night my father called, said everyone in the village knew. He spoke flatly, but I heard someone laughing on the other end, maybe my second sister, maybe my mother.

He said, "Good that you made it ashore."

I said, "Mm."

He said, "Is it cold on the shore?"

I paused. "It's all right."

He said, "If it's cold, wear more."

After hanging up I sat in my rented room looking at the number in the banking app. The number wasn't large, but it was orderly, like a small brick you could place under a person's feet. I should have been happy. I don't know why a piece of me was empty.

After Lin Xiaoman got engaged we contacted less.

Her Moments updated occasionally. Once a hospital corridor, her father in a wheelchair, caption: recovering slowly. Once her brother starting school, a photo of the station. And once, engagement banquet photos. In the photo she wore a red dress, standing next to Zheng Wanshan. Zheng Wanshan was fat, round-faced, a gold chain on his neck, smiling very fully. Lin Xiaoman smiled too, a steady smile.

I enlarged the photo and looked a long time. Her eyes weren't on the camera, as if looking elsewhere. Or maybe I was overthinking. After people come ashore they always like to overthink for people still in the water.

Before National Day the unit organized a visit to veterans in the townships. The car passed Taoling. I sat in the back, saw a newly opened sand quarry by the road, a black SUV at the gate, plate ending in three eights. The sand piles were high. Wind blew, gray-white dust rose and settled on the corn leaves by the road.

A colleague said, "That's Zheng Wanshan's quarry. Business is big."

I said mm.

We arrived at the township government, finished the work around noon. The township arranged lunch at a farm restaurant. Osmanthus trees in the courtyard, a faint scent. We'd just sat down when township cadres brought in several people, local entrepreneurs, here to support veterans' work.

Zheng Wanshan was among them.

He wore a black shirt, belly straining the buttons. A large watch on his wrist. He shook the director's hand, said if anything was needed just ask, supporting the military and their families was a good thing. His voice was loud, his laugh louder. After sitting he offered everyone cigarettes. I don't smoke. He said:

"Young cadre, not smoking is good."

I said, "Thanks."

He looked at me, suddenly: "Are you the one from Ding'an's civil service class? My wife used to study there too."

The teacup in my hand paused.

I said, "Yes."

He said, "Her name is Lin Xiaoman. You know her, right?"

I said, "I do."

He said, "She used to like studying. Now I tell her not to. Women, you know, too much exhaustion isn't good. The family doesn't need her bit of salary anyway."

He said it without malice. Precisely because there was no malice, it hurt. He was just talking about a piece of furniture: this cabinet used to hold books, now it holds clothes, that's fine too.

I looked down and drank tea. The tea was a bit hot.

Zheng Wanshan added, "Though she's still reading lately. I said if you really want to take the exam, next year is fine. No rush now anyway."

A township cadre laughed. "Mr. Zheng has a high consciousness, supporting his wife's progress."

Zheng Wanshan waved. "Support, of course I support."

I didn't know if he meant it. Maybe he did. That's the most helpless part of reality: it isn't always made by bad people. Sometimes everyone thinks they're doing all right, and things still go bad.

Halfway through the meal, Lin Xiaoman arrived.

She'd come to bring Zheng Wanshan documents. Beige coat, hair down, looking more mature than before. She saw me at the door, her step paused, then recovered. She handed him the documents.

"You left them in the car."

Zheng Wanshan said, "Perfect. Come, meet the comrades from the county. This young man is your classmate."

Lin Xiaoman looked at me. "Long time no see."

I said, "Long time no see."

Zheng Wanshan said, "He's a cadre now. You should learn from him."

Lin Xiaoman smiled. "He was always good."

I wanted to say no, but didn't.

She didn't sit. Zheng Wanshan told her to sit and eat. She said there were things at home. She turned to leave. I stood too, said I was going to the restroom. The director glanced at me, said nothing.

Behind the courtyard a small path led to the parking lot. Shadows of osmanthus trees on the ground, broken. Lin Xiaoman walked ahead, I followed. Where there was no one, she stopped.

She said, "You really came ashore."

I said, "More or less."

She said, "What's more or less?"

I said, "You get to the shore and find the shore has mud too."

She smiled. "Still better than the water."

I asked, "Do you still study?"

She said, "Occasionally."

I asked, "Will you take it next year?"

She looked at the distant quarry, wind lifting dust, gray. She said:

"Depends."

Those two words are the grave adults use most. Many things get buried there and aren't dug up.

I said, "You used to say you wanted a desk."

She paused, as if she hadn't expected me to remember.

She said, "I bought one."

I asked, "Only for writing?"

She said, "Now it holds account books, keys, teacups, and his son's toys."

After saying it she laughed herself. Laughing, her eyes reddened a little. She immediately looked down, took a tissue from her bag, as if it were only the wind.

I said, "Xiaoman, I'm sorry."

She looked up. "Sorry for what?"

I said, "I don't know."

She said, "Then don't say it."

She clenched the tissue. After a while:

"You don't owe me anything. You passing is your ability, and your family's luck. Me not passing is my family's business. People can't be calculated that way."

I said, "But I always feel..."

She cut me off:

"Don't always feel. You people on the shore love to always feel. Always feel others are a pity, always feel you owe something, always feel there's still a way. A lot of the time there isn't. And no way isn't the sky falling. People still have to live."

I looked at her, couldn't speak.

She said:

"I'm not as miserable as you think. My dad can walk a few steps, my brother is still in school, my mom doesn't cry every day. Zheng Wanshan isn't careful, but he isn't bad. He gave my family money and doesn't hold it over me every day. See, life isn't a novel. It doesn't go bad that neatly."

I said, "Are you happy?"

She didn't answer right away.

Someone in the courtyard called Mr. Zheng. A dog barked in the distance. A bit of osmanthus fell on her shoulder.

She said:

"Happiness isn't something you can ask about every day. Ask every day and you can't go on."

I lowered my head.

She reached out, brushed the osmanthus off her shoulder.

"Do your work well from now on. Don't be the kind of person who only talks. You must have said a lot of nice things on interview day. From now on, do one sentence for every sentence you said."

I said, "How do you know?"

She said, "Don't you all say those things?"

I laughed. She laughed too.

Before leaving she said:

"Also, don't write me too bitter."

I froze. "Write what?"

She said, "Didn't you used to say you wanted to write? People like you can't keep things in. Sooner or later you'll write."

I said, "Write what then?"

She thought.

"Write the training class. Write a group of people sitting on the third floor of an old movie theater, thinking they're changing their fate. While fate is downstairs eating steamed buns."

Then she left.

I stood there watching her walk back to the restaurant. Her back was still thin, but no longer light the way it used to be. Before she was like a sheet of paper; a little more wind could blow her away. Now she was like a piece of cloth, soaked by life, heavy, that you couldn't wring dry.

That winter Ding'an Education moved to a new campus.

The third floor of the old theater emptied. The supermarket on the first floor was still there, the pool hall on the second too. The bun shop at the bridge changed its sign. Same owner, but the billboard was gone. That line "One choice changes a lifetime" was gone. Four expansion-bolt holes remained on the wall, like four eyes that hadn't closed.

One day after work I passed by and, as if possessed, went up to the third floor.

A lot of dust in the stairwell. The classroom door unlocked. Empty inside, desks and chairs gone, only the blackboard. In the corner, chalk not fully erased:

Verbal comprehension 35/40 Data analysis 18/20 Shenlun: problems, causes, countermeasures

I stood there, saw sunlight coming through the window crack, dust floating slowly in the light. Downstairs someone shouted that the buns were ready, the sound coming up, same as before.

I thought of Lin Xiaoman sitting in front of me, head down writing. Thought of her stuffing a mint into my hand. Thought of her saying, when you're in the water, you can't think about what's on the shore. Thought of her saying, it's not that I don't want to take the exam. I can't afford to take it.

Later a new young person came to the unit, off-staff, working while preparing for the exam.

He asked me for prep advice. I said, do more questions, keep a steady mindset, don't give up. He took notes carefully. I looked at him and felt I'd become someone like Teacher Hou, saying the correct things with my mouth, knowing in my heart the words only covered half.

The other half belonged to fate.

At New Year I went back to the village. Father's back was still bad, but he told everyone I worked at the county. People asked how much I made. He said not much, but stable. The word "stable" from his mouth was like a stone hitting the ground.

In the first month they showed an old movie at the village entrance. Kids ran around, adults sat on benches cracking sunflower seeds. My mother asked if I had someone. I said no. She said no one suitable at the unit? I said no. She sighed.

"You're on the shore now. Time to think about starting a family."

I said, "People on the shore aren't easy to find either."

My father smoked beside us.

"On the shore or off it, it's still people looking for people."

My mother scolded him. "What do you know how to say."

My father smiled and said nothing more.

March, another year of the provincial exam. Training ads hung all over the county streets again. Ding'an's new ad was bigger:

Coming ashore starts here.

The young people in the photo still in white shirts, still smiling in unison. I saw the ad from the bus and suddenly thought of the forty-two people on the third floor of the old theater. The fat guy never came ashore, went to the city to sell insurance, posted success-ology on Moments every day. Sister Zhou passed a township public-institution exam the next year, posted a photo of her work badge, said she finally had medical insurance. Teacher Hou was still at Ding'an, now a campus director. Lin Xiaoman never took the exam again, at least not that I heard.

6. Materials

Later I saw Lin Xiaoman again, in a set of materials.

That morning the county was evaluating a batch of "Veterans Employment Support Bases." Our bureau collected materials in a small second-floor meeting room. Meeting room in name; really an old office. A banner on the wall: "Hearts with old soldiers, warmth for the people." Under the banner a printer that always jammed. Every jam you opened the lid and slapped it twice, like slapping someone who wouldn't wake up.

Most who came to submit were company clerks. Supermarket owners, security companies, auto repair, a few township co-ops. The materials were all similar: business license copies, legal-person IDs, lists of veterans placed, commitment letters, application forms. Everyone said they supported the military and their families. Everyone put the materials in a clear document bag.

Near noon, she came.

Beige coat, hair down, a stack of materials in her arms. A bit of dust on the cuffs, as if she'd come from the quarry. She stood in the doorway, saw me, paused. I paused too.

Someone behind urged, "Comrade, are materials submitted here?"

I said, "Yes, come in."

She came in, put the materials on the desk.

"Zheng Wanshan Sand and Gravel, applying to be a Veterans Employment Support Base."

I took the materials, turned page by page. Red seals on the paper, new, glaringly red. The application form: current staff twenty-eight, of whom three veterans. Intend to further absorb veterans into employment, actively fulfill social responsibility.

Her handwriting was still small, still neat. Only now those characters weren't written in an error notebook or on Shenlun grid paper, but on Zheng Wanshan Sand and Gravel's application form.

I said, "Missing a copy of a veteran's labor contract."

She looked down. "It's in the back."

I flipped again, it was. She still spoke that way, not rushed, not explaining extra. Like before, when I got a question wrong, she'd push the notebook over: look again.

I said, "And this commitment letter, no fingerprint on the legal-person signature."

She said, "He's in the car downstairs. I'll have him come up and add it."

I said, "No need. You can supplement this afternoon."

She looked at me. "Then I'll come back this afternoon."

We talked official business like that. She sat across the desk, I sat behind it. Between us a stack of materials, an official seal, an application form. Years ago what was between us was a desk, an error notebook, a mint. The things had changed. The meaning of what stood between us was about the same.

No one behind us now. The office went quiet. The printer suddenly made a sound, then stopped.

She said, "You work here now?"

I said, "Mm."

She said, "That's good."

I said, "You?"

She smiled. "I'm good too."

Neither of us followed up on those two "goods." When adults say they're good, it's mostly not to explain that things are good. It's so they don't have to keep talking.

I looked at the application. "Is your quarry still hiring veterans?"

She said, "We hire. If they can endure hardship, we hire."

I heard "endure hardship" and something moved. Village people used to say that about me too: you were a soldier, you can endure hardship, you have an advantage. Later I learned that being able to endure hardship sometimes isn't an advantage. It's other people feeling safe handing you the hardship.

I said, "Wages paid on time?"

She looked at me. "You can rest easy on that."

I said, "It's not about me resting easy. It has to be clear on the materials."

She nodded. "I'll supplement a wage-payment statement this afternoon."

She looked down and noted it in a notebook. She had a notebook now too, not a Shenlun notebook, a black memo book. Written on it: contracts, invoices, fuel, insurance, workers' wages. Lines of characters, very steady. She used to say she wanted a desk only for writing. Now she probably had a desk. Only too many things on it to hold one person's ideal.

I organized the materials, clipped them.

"I'll keep these for now. Fingerprint and statement this afternoon."

She said, "Okay."

She stood, picked up her bag, ready to go. At the door she stopped, looked back.

"You talk like a window clerk now too."

I said, "That's what I am."

She smiled. "You weren't before."

I smiled a little too.

After she left I looked down at the application. In the reasons column:

"This enterprise is willing to provide stable employment posts for veterans, help veterans achieve role transition, and integrate into local development."

Well written. Like a Shenlun answer. Problem, significance, countermeasures all there. I didn't know who wrote it. Maybe she did. She used to be able to write this kind of language. Only then she wrote it to come ashore herself. Now she wrote it so someone else's company could hang a plaque.

That afternoon she came again.

Zheng Wanshan didn't come up, just had the driver send the fingerprint and statement. She handed me the supplements. I checked.

"Complete."

She said, "Thank you."

I said, "There will be on-site verification later."

She said, "I know."

She turned to leave. I suddenly called:

"Xiaoman."

She stopped.

I wanted to ask, do you still study? Is that desk still there? Are you happy? But those questions weren't suitable at the office. Words in a work unit have boundaries, like a document bag: what fits, what doesn't, you can see at a glance.

In the end I only said:

"If there's a problem with the materials I'll contact you."

She looked at me, nodded.

"Okay."

She went downstairs.

I stood by the window and watched her walk down. Zheng Wanshan's black SUV in the courtyard, a layer of dust on it. She opened the door, put her bag in, looked back once at our building. Maybe looking at me, maybe just seeing if anyone upstairs was calling her.

When the car left, a gust of dust rose in the courtyard. The dust was light, floated up, slowly settled. Old Zhao the gatekeeper came out with a broom, swept a few times, the wind blew it back. Old Zhao swore, "This dust, you can't sweep it clean."

I went back to the desk, put Zheng Wanshan Sand and Gravel's materials into the pending stack. The stack was thick. Every file wrote support, employment, responsibility, contribution. The words on the paper were all very clean, so clean it was as if no one had ever changed their fate for a hundred thousand yuan.

After work I stayed alone to organize files. Outside it was dark, the county lights coming on one by one. A car passed in the distance, the sound low. In the stairwell a veterans' service slogan:

Let being a soldier become an occupation the whole of society honors.

I looked at that line and thought of the third floor of the old movie theater. Thought of forty-two desks. Thought of Lin Xiaoman sitting in front of me, head down on the questions. Thought of her stuffing a mint into my hand. Thought of her saying, when you're in the water, you can't think about what's on the shore. Thought of her saying, it's not that I don't want to take the exam. I can't afford to take it.

Now she was submitting an application for a sand quarry to be a Veterans Employment Support Base, and I sat here reviewing the materials she brought. We both seemed to have come ashore, and neither of us quite had.

Many years from now I may forget the Xingce formulas, forget the Shenlun templates, forget what I answered in the interview. I will not forget Lin Xiaoman.

She didn't come ashore.

Or rather, she came ashore on a different shore.

That shore had no red list, no hiring notice, no five insurances and one fund. Only hospital payment slips, quarry dust, workers' wage sheets, a desk that wasn't only for writing.

But she stood there, and she didn't fall.

That's all I know.