USA. Kentucky. I ordered bourbon, because a man in a cap had pointed at the bottle as if it were a relative.

It arrived brown and serious, in a glass too small for the speech I had prepared.

I reached for the water pitcher. This is what a careful guest does. You do not drink another man’s fire undiluted. You show respect by making it survivable.

A hand closed on my wrist.

The man in the cap said, “Whoa. Whoa. We don’t do that to her.”

I looked at the glass. I looked at him. I looked at the pitcher, which had become a weapon.

“It is strong,” I said.

“That’s the point, chief.”

He let go. He did not laugh. This was not a joke. This was a small religion with no building.

I sat with the glass. No water. One cube, later, when he nodded, as if granting a minor mercy.

The drink tasted like a barn that had decided to become a king.

I finished it. My face remained still. This also seemed to be the law.

“There you go,” he said. “Now you met her.”

So tell me, America.

When a man stops your hand over a glass, is he protecting you, or the drink, or the dead oak that raised it?

And if water is an insult, what am I allowed to add besides silence?

Now you met her.