Three days before his wedding, my neighbor Jake told me he had cold feet.I asked how cold.He stared at me.I stared back.Communication in this country is difficult.That night, I prepared.Wool socks. Two pairs.Hand warmers for the feet.A hot water bottle, in case the situation escalated.I brought them to his door in the morning."Reinforcements," I said."Dude, I meant—""Wool," I said. "From a mountain sheep. The sheep survives the winter. So will you."He looked at the socks for a long time.His eyes got wet.This country has many allergies.He did not explain.I did not ask.A warrior does not discuss his feet.At the wedding, before the vows, he lifted his pant leg and showed me.Wool. Under the tuxedo.Two hundred people watched him promise his life to a woman.I watched his ankles. They were warm.At the reception, he told everyone I saved his wedding with socks.Two hundred Americans nodded like this was normal.Later, his wife told me a secret.That morning, Jake had sat in his car for forty minutes, unable to go in.Then he remembered the socks.He laughed for the first time in three days.He went in.I still do not know what "cold feet" means in this country.In my country, feet get cold in winter.Here, they get cold before the biggest day of a man's life.Either way, the treatment is the same.His feet were warm.He did not run.