The invigilator’s words were directed at Wen Ying.
He thought he was saving a candidate with weak resolve.
Wen Ying, however, froze.
She’d dreamt of the 2004 entrance exam countless times, but never once had she finished the paper in those dreams, let alone imagined what came next. This dream was bizarre. She pressed a hand to her forehead—the heat made her heart race.
Was this really a dream, so vivid?
She shot to her feet.
“What are you doing, eh?” the invigilator blurted, slipping into dialect in his alarm.
“Teacher, I’m handing in my paper.”
Wen Ying’s mind was no longer on the exam—she just wanted out of this room.
Her move drew stares from the other candidates.
Who was this bold soul, submitting now?
Even if you’d finished, you’d check it a few times!
The invigilator glanced at his watch. “No chance—sit down. It’s not time yet. If you don’t want to carry on, nap at your desk, but don’t disturb the others!”
Submission time?
Wen Ying couldn’t quite recall.
Was it an hour after the start, or half an hour before the end?
She was starting to take this dream seriously.
If it was a dream, no harm done.
She was the master here—she’d go wherever she pleased.
The invigilator couldn’t stop her. Even if her mum, Chen Ru, showed up, she’d have to toe the line in this dream!
But if it was real, breaking exam rules could void her score…
Wen Ying sank back into her seat, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
She’d thought herself strong, yet this dream exposed her fragility. The 2004 exam failure really was her obsession. When the submission window finally arrived, she bolted out first, stumbling from her unwell state.
The invigilator shook his head silently.
This candidate was too flighty—her heart wasn’t in the exam.
Parents slogged to fund their kids’ education, yet today’s youngsters couldn’t handle a bit of hardship.
He collected Wen Ying’s paper and flipped it over—then paused.
He couldn’t judge the other answers, but her essay—those sentence structures and vocabulary—far exceeded a junior high student’s level!
…
Wen Ying staggered out of the classroom, one foot heavy, one light.
She knew this school well.
For the entrance exam, students from the whole county were shuffled and reassigned exam numbers. By chance, Wen Ying was placed at her own junior high alma mater.
Orienting herself, she headed toward the school gate from memory. From a distance, Chen Ru spotted her.
“Wen Ying? Wen Ying!”
Chen Ru, holding an umbrella, checked her watch. Seeing Wen Ying submit so early, she nearly leapt in shock.
Elegance flew out the window.
Ignoring the crowd of waiting parents, Chen Ru launched into a tirade.
The other parents got it.
If their kid pulled this stunt, they’d lose it too.
The entrance exam was massive—submitting early like that, could she have done well?
Even if the questions seemed easy, you’d check them over.
Such a cavalier attitude—no wonder the mum was raging.
Wen Ying mused that the scolding had come early this time.
In her memory, she’d fainted right after leaving the exam, and her mum had rushed her to hospital—no chance to grill her then.
The real storm hit when the results came out.
91!
That score dragged down her total and left Chen Ru too ashamed to show her face. Wen Dongrong, her dad, often bragged about her English at work. His colleagues flattered him, saying she’d study languages at uni. In 2004, Li Yang’s Crazy English was all the rage, spreading the gospel of English learning nationwide—even in their small city under Rongcheng’s jurisdiction, “learn English well” was gospel.
Wen Ying’s knack for English had earned Wen Dongrong plenty of praise.
But when the results dropped, that flattery turned into silent slaps, stripping him of face.
That summer of 2004, Wen Ying went nowhere. Chen Ru and Wen Dongrong shipped her off to her aunt’s in Rongcheng for over a month of English cram school!
Even away, she couldn’t escape their tag-team lectures—three calls a day, morning and night, checking her progress and never letting that 91 slip.
Chen Ru also reminded her how many favours and how much money it took to get her into that high school.
It wasn’t wrong to tell a kid this, but there’s a way to do it. Years later, Wen Ying still recalled how she’d entered that school trembling.
The memory made her head spin worse.
“Mum, hold off on the shouting—I think I’ve got a fever!” Wen Ying cut in.
Chen Ru faltered.
She touched Wen Ying’s forehead—scorching.
A closer look—her face was unnaturally red, not from the sun.
Chen Ru stopped scolding, hauled her onto the Mulan women’s scooter, and sped to the hospital.
As they left, a parent waiting at the gate sighed, “Scold all you like, but which mum doesn’t ache for her kid? One precious darling—worried she won’t excel, worried she’ll fall ill. What a headache!”
Others chimed in agreement.
Chen Ru raced Wen Ying to the hospital. After a flurry of tests and bloodwork, the doctor diagnosed flu—high fever, body aches, and fatigue.
As for how she caught it, Chen Ru pinned it on a June trip to the provincial capital with classmates. They’d been caught in rain without umbrellas, and Wen Ying came home drenched. She’d coughed for a week after. Chen Ru gave her loquat cough syrup, and when the cough stopped, she thought little of it—until now, berating her in front of the doctor:
“It’s all your fault—not listening, gallivanting off before the exam. If you’d stayed put, you wouldn’t have got wet, wouldn’t have got sick, and who knows if this messed up your score!”
Wen Ying lay in bed, too drained to reply.
The doctor, fed up, intervened. “The patient needs rest—please step out.”
“She’s like this—she’ll need to stay a few days. Go prepay the fees!”
Chen Ru blinked. “Stay for a cold?”
“It’s flu, severe. Hospitalisation’s best for treatment.”
Flu’s contagious—a mild case is one thing, but severe ones can bring complications, even death.
Once the doctor explained the gravity, Chen Ru quieted down and went to arrange Wen Ying’s stay.
The tests and fees drained her cash. With days of hospitalisation ahead, she had to call Wen Dongrong for help.
