In the grip of hunger, a hamster mother faces a grim choice as she turns to her newborns. These delicate, pink bundles wiggle sightlessly, unable to see the world they’ve entered. Would you have chosen to bring me into this world again? I ask. My question hangs in the air, unanswered, as she loses herself in a drunken whirl, swaying to the pulsing rock music from her phone, her movements fueled by the heady rush of Wuliangye. In the confines of her cage, the hamster mother paces in restless anxiety, prodding her pups—a stark contrast to my own mother’s languor on the sofa, pushing away the honey water I offer, denying her drunkenness. With meticulous care, the hamster mother lifts each pup, her sharp, shell-crushing teeth cradling their fragile forms. One by one, she moves them, transforming her brood into a cluster in the cage corner, reminiscent of succulent pork morsels skewered on bamboo. As sleep claims my mother, I clasp her rough, scar-lined hands, ensuring she stays safe from her own nails. In their tiny haven, the baby hamsters huddle, their miniature paws fluttering in tender undulations, an embodiment of innocent vulnerability. Without their familiar scent, the mother hamster teeters on the brink of a primal, cruel decision, the narrator says. Gently tucking my mother under a blanket, I dim the room, the TV’s chatter fading. In this silent vigil, I contemplate reassuring my grandma — Mom’s Okay, she hasn’t drunk, we’re all managing just fine, I’ll navigate tomorrow’s school day solo, we’ll be all right.

Huina Zheng, a holder of a Distinction M.A. in English Studies, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations twice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China, with her husband and daughter.