As I kicked and punched at the man, I glanced at the knife in his right hand. And I felt it dig into my side. It all started as I crossed paths with the man. He reached in his pocket, and pulled out the knife. I then did what surely only an idiot would do. I began to fight him. A few seconds earlier, as the man approached me on the path, he stared at me fiercely. He charged toward me, and bared his gritting teeth. His eyes reduced to snake-eye slits, and glowed under the harsh night lamplight. He shook his head from side to side, growling. When the man transformed from just another passerby into a mortal threat, I felt something I had never felt before, and that I haven’t felt since. A bolt of lightning rose from my stomach, to my chest. I heard a deep growl grow into a roar. An authoritative “NOOO!” It wasn’t until I heard that roar echo off the surrounding buildings that I realized -- it had come from me. It’s worth noting, I’ve never been a “tough guy.” I had never been in a fight. Yes, my older brother beat me up more times than I can count, but if someone at school threatened me, I would always meekly back down. So as I watched myself, from outside of my own body, kicking and punching at this man with a deadly weapon in his hand, I was saying to myself, What are you thinking!? But there was no going back. The struggle had begun, and for the first time ever, I was literally fighting for my life. Is this how I die?, I asked myself. But the snake-eyed man suddenly didn’t look so fearless and dangerous. His eyes widened, his eyebrows soared, his mouth gaped open -- its corners bending downward. I guess he thought he had picked an easy target. It turned out, he was wrong. As the man evaded my frantic kicks and punches, an economist took over my mind. I was fighting for my life. He -- was fighting for -- what? An iPhone? Some money? He still hadn’t said anything, so I didn’t know for sure. And that’s when I felt the knife dig into my side. Right between my left ribs. Only, thankfully, it didn’t happen. The knife was still by the man’s side -- dangling from his right hand, as he repeatedly grabbed at me with his left. I had only imagined him stabbing me. It must have been a simulation run by the economist that had taken over my mind. And that simulation had brought the economist to this conclusion: I had way more to lose than this guy. And that was my advantage. All I had to do was make some space, and this guy would cut his losses and move on. But the pavement was wet. I hadn’t run more than a few paces before I slipped, head-first, down the sloping sidewalk. The flesh of my left hand was being ground off by the concrete, as I used it as my brake pad. As I slid down the hill, I glanced over my left shoulder. I hadn’t gone far, but maybe this was enough distance to get him to give up. But he didn’t give up. He was following me. I still don’t know how, but I somehow got to my feet faster than he could catch me. I vaulted myself over one guardrail. I vaulted myself over another guardrail on the next path over. I scurried down a steep hill, slammed into a chain link fence, and ran like hell. When I arrived at home, only a couple of blocks away, my hand was bleeding, my toe was bleeding, my shoes were ripped, and a button was broken off of my favorite shirt. But, I was safe. We all know what you’re supposed to do when someone pulls a knife on you. Give them your wallet. Give them your phone. Do what they tell you to do. “Your life is more valuable than your iPhone,” people will say. Yeah, no shit. Just because I got away with my decision, doesn’t make it a good decision. Annie Duke would call that “resulting” -- rating the quality of your decisions on the outcome, rather than, well, the quality of your decision. You should not fight a guy who pulls a knife on you. That would be a bad decision. Except that, you aren’t making a decision. You’re merely reacting. It’s a non-decision. This is the error we make when we play armchair quart