Lines in the Textbook
Lin Jianguo woke up again from the darkness.
Above his head was still that charred beam, the same patched earth bed beneath him, the wall still covered with old newspapers, and the date on the newspapers was still the same—October 10, 1978.
He didn't move. He just lay there, staring at the dried red peppers hanging from the beam.
The first time, he went to the field office and rambled nonsense, being mistaken for a fool.
The first time, he snuck out in the middle of the night to cut wires and was caught red-handed. His father was bowing to someone in the snow.
The first time, he still couldn't stop that fire.
When that thought suddenly surfaced in his mind, a sharp pang struck his heart—images of his parents disappearing into the flames still flickered before his eyes: the silver hairpin on his mother's head flashing, sparks dancing on his father's coat hem. Those images were so clear, as if they had just happened moments ago.
But they were also still there.
From the next room, he could hear his father coughing, the sound of his mother moving in the kitchen, the clattering of pots and bowls. Those sounds were real, vivid—right beside him.
Lin Jianguo slowly sat up, pulled the quilt aside, and stepped barefoot onto the ground. The coolness of the earth sent a shiver through him.
He walked to the table, opened the drawer.
The calendar was still there, turned to October 12. The writing on the paper was exactly the same as last time—Lunar September 11, auspicious for marriage, taboo for travel.
Sixty-eight days.
Again, sixty-eight days.
He put the calendar back, closed the drawer, and turned to the old wooden chest in the corner of the wall. The chest wasn't locked. He lifted the lid, revealing some old books, notebooks, and miscellaneous clutter.
He looked through them for a while, finally pulling out a junior high physics textbook from the bottom.
The cover was torn, wrapped in brown paper, with his name written on it in brush strokes—Lin Jianguo. The handwriting was his father's, neat and square, as if carved.
He took the book to the window, opened it in the morning light that seeped in.
The pages were yellowed, the edges curled, some water-stained and wrinkled. But the characters inside were still very clear. Circuit diagrams, resistor symbols, series and parallel connections—things he hadn't touched in over sixty years—all laid out before his eyes.
He stared at those lines, but his mind was elsewhere.
He had seen many news reports in later years, attended fire safety lectures, watched documentaries on TV, learned bloody lessons, and repeatedly been reminded of fire prevention knowledge—aging circuits, short circuits causing fires, flammable materials stacking up, blocked escape routes...
What if he drew these lessons?
He remembered the safety posters from later times—bright reds and yellows, illustrating how fires ignite, how wires age, how people should run. Simple and clear, understandable even to children.
If he could draw such diagrams, show them to the team leader, to the workers, to the villagers...
Lin Jianguo held the textbook, standing by the window, looking at the half-leafed jujube tree outside. The sunlight warmed his face, but he felt a chill in his back.
It wasn't fear.
It was excitement.
He turned around, placed the textbook on the table, and rummaged through the drawer for a broken pencil tip and a few crumpled sheets of draft paper. They were leftovers from his mother used to wrap things. He smoothed each piece and spread them on the table.
Then he started drawing.
First, a simple circuit diagram—wires, switches, light bulbs. He had learned this in middle school and could draw it with his eyes closed. But he was drawing something else.
Next to the wires, he drew a tiny spark, and beside the spark, he drew piles of sacks, with some crooked lines on top representing fire.
Then he wrote:Aging wires → Short circuit → Sparks → Igniting sacks → Fire
The characters were crooked, the strokes couldn't be straight, but the meaning was very clear.
He drew another diagram.
This one was of the forest station's warehouse. He tried to recall what it looked like—rectangular building, a wall-mounted electric meter box with a crack on it. He drew those details, then added a big cross next to the meter box with the word "Danger."
He drew one more.
This one depicted people. A small figure holding a fire extinguisher, spraying at the flames; another figure running out with a hand over their mouth; and a third shouting, mouth wide open.
Next to it, he wrote:What to do in case of fire? 1. Shout; 2. Use a fire extinguisher; 3. Run away.
After finishing the last stroke, he lowered the pencil, looking at the crumpled papers for a long time.
They were ugly drawings. The lines were crooked, the little figures looked like matchsticks, and the handwriting was worse than a dog's crawl. But everything that needed to be there was there.
He folded the papers and put them in his pocket.
Outside, his mother's voice called out, "Jianguo, dinner's ready!"
He responded and walked out of the house.
On the table in the main room were two bowls of corn porridge, a plate of pickles, and two steamed buns. His mother was scooping porridge into the bowls, while his father sat at the table, holding a bun but not eating, watching him.
Lin Jianguo sat across from his father, picked up his bowl, and lowered his head to eat.
His father's gaze fell on his face, sharp as two small knives.
"Didn't sleep well last night?" his father asked.
Lin Jianguo shook his head. "I slept."
"Then why are your eyes so dark?"
Lin Jianguo didn't answer. He continued eating his porridge.
His father looked at him for a moment, then didn't ask further. He took a bite of the bun and chewed. His mother was busy at the stove, with her back turned, saying nothing.
After finishing the meal, Lin Jianguo stood up and said, "I'm going to school."
He walked to the door, just about to step out, when his father's voice came from behind him.
"Don't go to the forest station anymore."
His steps paused.
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard."
He pushed the door open and stepped into the morning sunlight.