It was afternoon. Ma and I went to the park in front of our house to stroll around. Sister was at her friend’s house studying. Well, that’s what she claimed. Ma and I both knew that wasn’t true.

  More importantly, we were grilling ourselves under the sun at its peak, breathing in air thick with the oily breath of idling buses. I was sweating through my shirt, my lungs protesting every inhalation of lead-enriched oxygen. Why? Because Ma once said, “Breathing in toxic gas sometimes builds your immune system.” She insisted on it.

  I don’t blame her. There’s a story behind Ma’s nonsense advice.

  It all started one day when Ma fell ill. Ma always said she found me in a cardboard box behind a seafood restaurant. Maybe that’s why I was so desperate to save her—if the woman who plucked me from the literal garbage succumbed to a cough, what hope was there for the trash itself? However, that day, she caught a terrible flu.

  No one was home except Ma and me. I prepared breakfast myself and ate like the good girl I was. Still, I kept glancing around, uneasy. Where’s Ma? Don’t tell me she forgot about me and left the house again. My cheeks puffed in distress.

  Yes. You read that right. Ma would occasionally forget about her adorable daughter.

  I roamed around the house in search of her. The first place I went was Ma’s room.

  Creak.

  I opened the door. Ma was curled in bed, the quilt pulled up to her chin.

  Is Ma still asleep?

  I walked closer. Her cheeks were flushed an unhealthy red, skin damp with sweat. Her lashes rested heavily against her face, her brow furrowed. She breathed shallowly, as if even resting took effort.

  Oh no, Ma's sick!

  I bounced in place, panicking. Then Ma groaned. I froze. My heart thumped wildly. "What to do? What to do?" Then I remembered the times Ma had taken care of me. I nodded firmly. Wait for me, Ma!

  Five minutes later, I returned with a bowl of water, a cloth, and a thermometer. I soaked the cloth, wrung out the excess water, and gently placed it on her forehead. I repeated the process again and again. After a while, Ma’s face softened. Her breathing evened out.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  I slumped onto the chair and wiped sweat from my forehead. Leaning close, I whispered, “Mama…”

  Seeing her so weak made my chest tighten. An uncomfortable itch spread there. I didn’t like it.

  I checked the clock. It's already 10:30 a.m. I should prepare lunch. I hopped off the chair, then froze. Oh no. What does a sick person eat? I tried to recall the times I was sick. Congee? But what goes in it?

  After thinking hard and coming up empty, I decided to consult the Internet. I stumbled upon a website called Grandma Nature’s Ancient Vibrations, a neon-green blog filled with grainy vegetable photos and flashing "Secret Cure" banners. I sat there in stunned silence, my eyes darting between a pop-up ad and an article titled: “The Allium Shield: Why Scallions are the External Lung.” According to a user named CrystalHealer44, scallions didn't just go in the body—they went on it. All of it. I patted my butt and nodded solemnly. For Ma's sake.

  I rushed to the refrigerator. We didn’t have what I needed, so I grabbed the lemon spray and headed outside. Why lemon spray? It helps deter cats and dogs. If it didn’t work, I could always call our neighbor, Grandpa Grump. One wave of his cane and all animals would scatter. Since then, he’d earned the nickname “Professional Pet-Begone.”

  At the mini grocery store two streets away, I bought two large bags of scallions.

  The cashier smiled. “Making scallion pancakes, hon?”

  I shook my head.

  “Scallion ritual?” she asked.

  I shook my head again.

  Before she could ask more, I paid and rushed home.

  I cooked congee filled with scallions, ginger, and shredded chicken. Back in Ma’s room, I helped her sit up and fed her spoon by spoon.

  After she finished, I brought in the remaining scallions. I tied them around her neck, wrists, and ankles. I didn't just tie those scallions; I engineered them into a verdant straightjacket. By the time I was finished, Ma looked less like a patient and more like a human garnish. The room smelled like a giant bowl of ramen. I rubbed ginger on her chest and gave her ginger-honey tea. When she lay back down, I gently nudged her to make sure she was on her side.

  Then I picked up the last scallion. I glanced at Ma’s butt. I hope this would help.

  With the solemn focus of a surgeon, I reached for her waistband. One quick tug, a flash of skin, and I aimed the final scallion right for the center of her peaches. Luckily, Ma was conscious enough to clamp a hand around my wrist and croak, “If you value your life.”

  The next day, Ma was perfectly healthy. Naturally, I received a very thorough scolding, kneeling on the floor with my arms straight up in the air. That was the day I learned never to believe everything on the Internet.

  But Ma didn't just stop at the scolding. Ever since I tried to turn her into a human stir-fry, she’s made it her mission to "out-nonsense" me. It was her way of keeping the upper hand. If I was gullible enough to trust a sketchy blog about scallions, then surely I’d believe that breathing in car exhaust was basically a free vitamin shot.

  And that, everyone, is why I stood there, dutifully huffing bus exhaust. It wasn't about the science. It was about Ma’s long-game revenge for the scallion I tried to shove between her peaches. As another cloud of bus exhaust drifted around us, I caught it. A glimpse. She wasn’t coughing. She was smiling. A tiny, triumphant smirk, savoring the dusty sweetness of a long-game victory.