USA. A drive-in. I ordered a small drink, and they handed me a bucket with a straw in it. I had asked for small because I am a modest man. Restraint is a discipline. I chose the humblest vessel on the menu. The cup required two hands. "This is the small?" "That's the small, yes sir." I held it up. It eclipsed the sun. In my land, a teacup rests in the palm like a small bird, and a man drinks in three quiet sips and is grateful. This 'small' held enough liquid to put out a cooking fire. "Then what," I asked, afraid of the answer, "is the large?" The girl at the window pointed. A man in a truck was cradling something with both arms. A vessel. A barrel with a lid. He was not drinking it so much as living alongside it. "That's the large." I understood then. The words have not lied. The scale has simply moved. In this country, 'small' is not a size. It is a rank. It means: smallest among giants. The lowest soldier in an army of titans is still a soldier. I drank my bucket in the parking lot, with both hands, like a child with a festival prize. I confess I could not finish it. I, who chose smallness as discipline, was defeated by the discipline I chose. A small that takes two hands is not a lie. It is a promise that undersold itself. I will order the small again. Every time. Not because I can finish it. Because somewhere in this land there is a man cradling the large, and one of us must remain humble.