USA. A restaurant. The waitress waited until the exact moment my mouth was full, and then she asked me a question. "How's everything tasting?" An inspection. A surprise inspection. And I, caught mid-bite, failed it instantly. In my land, when a lord inspects, you stop, you set down your tools, you answer with your whole body. Here, the inspection arrives every six minutes, always while you are chewing, and the chewing is somehow part of the test. I tried to swallow with honor. There is no way to swallow with honor. "Mmh — it is — " I covered my mouth. A samurai, covering his mouth, nodding like a schoolboy. "Awesome," she said, already gone. ALREADY GONE. The inspection concluded before my testimony. What did she record. What does the kitchen now believe about me. I asked the man at the next table how one passes this trial. He did not look up from his ribs. "Thumbs up, man." The thumb. Of course. A full mouth cannot speak, but the thumb speaks for the entire man. The next patrol came — six minutes later, on schedule. As she asked, I raised the thumb. Slowly. With weight. The way one raises a banner over a taken hill. "Perfect!" she said, and moved on, satisfied. I passed. I have negotiated truces between furious houses, and no diplomacy ever relieved me like that thumb. A man does not answer the patrol with a full mouth. He answers with the thumb, and the thumb is enough. I use it everywhere now. The barber. The bank. My dentist asked if I was comfortable, and I gave him the thumb of a man at peace. He gave it back. This country runs on it.