I purchased a drink. The machine, a silver general, dispensed an impossible amount of ice with the enthusiasm of a summer festival. Five seconds of ice. A glittering avalanche. Then a polite splash of beverage, as a formality. In my land, ice is a guest in the drink. Here, the drink is a guest in the ice. "It is mostly ice," I observed. "You can ask for light ice," the cashier said. LIGHT ice. There are degrees. A whole doctrine. Light ice, regular ice, extra ice, an empire with provinces, and I had been paying tribute without ever learning its name. I asked the man at the refill station why Americans accept this. He shrugged. "Drink's cold all the way down, man." I stood corrected. All the way down. The ice is not stealing the drink's territory. It is garrisoning it. Every sip, defended. The last sip as cold as the first. A supply line that never fails. My ancestors lost entire campaigns over logistics worse than this. And then, the final teaching. I finished my drink, and the cup was still half full. Of ice. I did what I have seen Americans do. I shook the cup. I chewed a piece. I sat in the parking lot rattling the ice like a man with nowhere urgent to be. I confess it was a good hour. Possibly a great one. Do not count what the ice has taken. Count what it has defended. I order regular ice now. Full tribute, paid gladly. And when the drink is gone, the empire and I sit together a while longer, rattling.