USA. A buffet. The sign said all you can eat. The small print said one hour. All. You. Can. One hour. I treated the hour as a suggestion. In my land, a host who sets food before you has made a moral promise. Time limits feel like trickery. I made a plate with strategy. Salad as decoy. Meat as purpose. I returned twice. I was winning. A bell rang. Not a gentle bell. A bell with policy inside it. "Fifteen minutes, folks!" Folks. The whole room was folks now. We were all fellow prisoners of abundance. "Five minutes, folks!" I accelerated. Honor demanded I finish what I had declared on my plate. My friend whispered, "Dude, it's just a buffet." "Dude, it's just a buffet." It is never just a buffet. It is a contract written in gravy. The bell rang again. Five minutes. I ate faster than I have eaten in war. When the hour ended, I was standing over potatoes I respected too much to abandon. The carving station had closed. The soft-serve had retired. I had been loyal to starch. "You can box that up," the manager said. Box it up. Even defeat travels home in America. I was not full. I was not free. I had been defeated by a clock that smiled. Time, in this country, is also an appetizer. It whets the appetite for panic. A clock that smiles while you eat cannot be ignored. It can only be obeyed with gravy on your shirt. I know the rule now. One plate. One mission. Leave before the bell learns your name. Who am I deceiving. I will return tomorrow with an empty stomach and a full strategy, and I will still hear the bell, and I will still box something on the way out.