I bought water and gum. The young woman at the counter gave me my change and then issued a startling command about my journey. I bought water and gum. She gave me my change and said it the way other nations say goodbye: "Drive safe, now." An order. Issued by a stranger, to a stranger, concerning my LIFE. In my land, only family says such things, and only at airports, and only with great ceremony. This woman said it while opening a roll of quarters. I took it as a lord's command, because what else does one do with a command. Hands at ten and two. Five under the limit. Full stops so complete the car bowed. My friend asked why we were being passed by a school bus. "I am under orders." "From who?" "The woman at the Shell station." "She says that to literally everyone." "Then everyone is under her protection, and the roads are safer than you know." He had no reply. There is no reply. Somewhere in this country, thousands of cashiers issue thousands of these orders a day, a vast unpaid network of guardians commanding strangers to live. And the strangers mostly obey, mostly without noticing. In Japan we say "ki wo tsukete." It is warm. But it floats, like advice. "Drive safe" lands, like a hand on the shoulder. Two syllables of duty. I returned a week later. Same station. Same woman. I reported in. "I drove safe." She blinked. "...Good?" A guardian does not remember her soldiers. The soldiers remember her. That is how guarding works. Drive safe, all of you. That is not a farewell. As of today, it is my command, and you are under it.