My neighbor, Dale, possesses a magnificent machine of burden, and I have observed its quiet, unyielding service to our entire district. Monday, a family down the street moved. Dale's truck. Wednesday, a tree limb fell on Mrs. Carter's fence. Dale's truck. Friday it snowed, and an unspoken signal traveled the block, and Dale appeared with a plow blade like a one-man cavalry. No one pays him. No one drafts him. He is summoned by need alone. "Dale," I asked, "who do you serve?" "What?" "Who commands the truck?" He thought about it. "Whoever's stuck, I guess." WHOEVER IS STUCK. Eight hundred years of military philosophy in my bloodline, and this man in a hoodie has perfected it: a standing army of one, sworn to the realm of Whoever Is Stuck. In my land, a lord keeps soldiers for his own gate. Dale keeps a truck for everyone's gate. I offered him my loyalty. He offered me a beer. We were both confused by the other's gift and accepted anyway. That is diplomacy. I asked what I could do to repay the block's debt to him. He said, "Help me load a couch Saturday." I have never trained harder for anything. The couch was heavy. I was not strong enough. I want to say I was. I was not. Dale carried his end and most of mine and said "good lift" anyway, which is the kindest lie in the language. A man with a truck does not ask who needs him. He has already backed into the driveway. I cannot buy a truck yet. So I have become the man who shows up when the truck does. Every truck needs a vanguard. Dale has not approved this title. Dale does not need to.