Let me tell you a story about 'Flight and Flight Response'. You've read that right. When it comes to Ma, there is no fight. Only flight.

  One evening, as usual, we were eating the meat we had captured ourselves at the dining table. The air was quiet. No chatter. Only the sound of chewing. Some people might call that an unloving family.

  Wrong.

  We simply upheld a sacred rule: no talking while eating.

  If you think we were obedient children… you’d be half right. Look closer. Especially at the hammer.

  It sat on the table, well-waxed, meticulously maintained, perfectly parallel to the edge. Close enough for Ma to grab and swing down at any moment. That hammer was our true parent. The reason we sat straight. The reason we swallowed quickly. That was what kept us disciplined.

  People called us cowards. We called it survival instinct.

  After all, Ma never pointed her hammer at strangers. Only her children. Ma often reminded us, mid-beating, “The more beating you get, the more love you receive.” I never understood what it meant when I was young.

  Now? Even less.

  Maybe I never will. And that’s fine.

  Ma wiped her plate clean, placed her utensils down, and rested her hands on the table. Her voice was calm when she asked, “If one day I get electrocuted, do you know what to do?”

  Her gaze shifted between the two of us, waiting. Meanwhile, her other hand drifted. Slow. Deliberate. Towards the hammer.

  Sister shook her head. As always.

  To this day, I still don’t know whether she truly didn’t know, or if she pretended not to. But we both know one thing, with Ma, a wrong answer hurt more than no answer at all. And “wrong” didn’t mean universally wrong. It only meant wrong to her.

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  The correct answer existed somewhere inside Ma’s head, fully formed, perfectly logical to her alone. Even a mind reader would struggle to reach it. And even if they did, there was no guarantee it would be right twice.

  After all, Ma’s thoughts weren’t a straight road. They were a tangled highway interchange, looping, doubling back, and leading nowhere sensible—yet somehow always ending with the hammer.

  Ma’s head snapped toward me. Her eyes burned.

  My eyes widened. Fear hit first. Logic followed, tripping over itself.

  I gulped down unchewed meat, nearly choking, then drowned it with water. My body moved before my brain could catch up.

  I adjusted my position. My hips hovered near the edge of the seat, as if the chair might vanish at any moment. One foot slid slightly forward, heels light, weight tipping ahead. Knees bent. Coiled. Ready. I leaned in, spine alert, hands loose on my thighs. Not resting. Waiting.

  If someone told me to run, I wouldn’t need to stand first. I’d already be gone. It might be useless against Ma. Still worth trying.

  Once fully in my flight position, I answered in the most honest tone I could manage. My eyes weren’t on Ma’s face. They were glued to her fingers.

  “I’ll use a wooden plank,” I said carefully, “and smack you away.”

  Ma’s eyebrow twitched. She stared at me, confused. Sister’s food slipped from her chopsticks and landed softly back on her plate.

  Ma blinked. Her fingers hovered dangerously above her hammer. “You don’t need to smack me,” she said slowly. “Just move my hand away with the wood.”

  I stood up.

  Casually. Slowly. Backing away from the danger zone which flared red alert.

  Turning my face so she couldn’t see my smirk, I said, “If I don’t do it then, when will I get the next chance?”

  Sister pressed her lips together and covered her face. Ma, oh Ma. She was already out of her seat.

  The hammer flew. I ducked just in time. It smashed into the wall behind me with a crack that rattled my teeth. Ma lunged to retrieve it and charged again.

  I ran. Through the house. Past the second shattered window. My foot slipped once on the tiles—just once—and my heart jumped into my throat before instinct yanked me forward again.

  I vaulted the railing on instincts school never taught me. Slid, turned, and dove into my room. Door slammed. Locked. I leaned against it, chest heaving.

  Thank goodness the hammer couldn’t magically return to Ma’s hand. If it could, I’d be dead.

  I survived that night. The next day… not so much.

  Still, had I chosen fight, my butt would have been whooped immediately. By choosing flight, I lasted the whole night.

  Now you know why flight is the superior option.

  Gray Suns!