A woman at the warehouse store held out a tiny paper cup. Inside was one bite of sausage, skewered on a toothpick. “Free sample,” she said, and smiled. I took it. I ate it. It was warm, and it was good. And in that moment, a debt was born. In my country, to accept food from another’s hand is to accept an obligation. The gift may be small. The bond is not. I had eaten her sausage. I now owed her my service. So I stayed. I arranged her toothpicks. I guarded her tray from a child who reached for a second piece. When a man took one without bowing, I corrected him. She told me the samples were free. I told her nothing warm is ever free. She said it again, slower. I bowed lower. A manager came. He explained the samples cost the store nothing, that I owed no one, that I should enjoy my shopping and go. I thanked him for his kindness. Then I returned to my post beside the sausage. I was there four hours. They have asked me not to come back. But a debt does not expire because a building locks its doors to you. So I must ask, plainly. When an American hands a stranger food and asks nothing in return, what is the true price? What am I bound to? How long does it last? Tell me the terms. I intend to pay them in full.