A child, flushed from battle with summer heat, offered me his elixir, fresh from a green serpent coiled in the grass. This, it seemed, was the sacred chalice of American youth. It was 96 degrees. Dale's grandchildren had run through a sprinkler for an hour, the sprinkler itself a marvel, water flung skyward purely for joy. Then the oldest boy picked up the hose, drank deeply, wiped his mouth, and held it out to me. "It's good," he said. "Tastes like outside." In my land, water is served in a glass, at a table, with both hands if the guest is honored. The water before me had traveled through a sun-warmed rubber serpent lying in the grass since May. Dale, from his folding chair: "Let it run a second first. Gets hot in the line." This was the ENTIRE safety briefing. Generations of American children were raised on this water. They emerge healthy, loud, and nostalgic. Every adult on this street, when asked, smiled the same smile and said the same sentence: best water I ever had. I drank. I must report honestly. It tasted of warm rubber, then of cold metal, then of something I can only call July. It was not clean. It was PERFECT. The two are apparently unrelated. The boy nodded at me, one veteran to a recruit. "Told you." I drank again. Somewhere, my ancestors, who boiled their water, who built an entire ceremony around tea, turned to watch. I do not believe they were disappointed. I believe they were thirsty. Sue says children today drink from labeled bottles, and the hose tradition is fading. She says it the way one reports a shrine falling into disuse. I understand my duty now. The hose does not promise pure water. It promises summer, and keeps the promise whole. There is a hose at my house. The neighborhood children know they may drink from it, after letting it run a second first. The line, like the duty, must stay cold.