I parked in my driveway with sixteen plastic grocery bags from Kroger and a twenty-four pack of bottled water.I opened the trunk.I planned to take four bags inside, come back, take four more, and make four dignified, comfortable trips.My neighbor Brad was standing by his garage.Brad was carrying his own groceries.Brad had seven plastic bags hanging from each wrist.He had a watermelon trapped under his left armpit.He had a twelve-pack of Coke clamped between his knees.His fingers were bright purple.His face was the color of a fresh tomato.He was hobbling toward his front door like a man crossing a minefield.I called out to him. "Brad! Why do you not make two trips?"Brad stopped.He did not turn his head, because turning his head would cause the watermelon to fall and the universe to collapse.He spoke through his teeth."Two trips is for the weak. You bring it all, or you die in the driveway."He kicked his screen door open with his heel, fell inside, and slammed the door with his hip.I stood by my open trunk in silence.Inside, my soul caught fire.This was not grocery shopping. This was an ancient code of martial endurance.In this country, making a second trip to the car is an admission of moral and physical failure.A warrior does not retreat to the trunk.I looped eight bags onto my left forearm.I looped eight bags onto my right forearm.I hoisted the forty-pound case of water against my chest with my chin clamped over the plastic.The plastic handles immediately began cutting off all blood circulation to my hands.My knuckles turned white, then blue, then gray.I could no longer feel my fingers.I took the first step.The water shifted. A bag of soup cans swung violently against my shin.Pain is an illusion. Honor is forever.I reached the porch.I did not have a free hand for the doorknob.I used my forehead to turn the handle, kicked the heavy wooden door open with my knee, and stumbled into the kitchen.I dropped the entire forty-eight pounds of groceries onto the island counter.*THUD.*I collapsed onto a barstool, breathing like a racehorse.My forearms were covered in deep red indentations that looked like tiger stripes.I had to wait nine minutes before my hands could hold a glass of water.I looked through the kitchen window.Brad was standing on his porch across the lawn, holding an ice pack against his wrist.He saw me looking.He raised his chin.I raised my chin.Not a single word was spoken.I lost all sensation in my fingertips until Thursday.I will never make two trips as long as I live.