USA. A checkout lane. I have found where this nation hides its ambush troops. They wait at the registers, at the exact height of a child's eyes. Candy. Wall to wall. Bright as banners. You cannot leave the store without passing it, and the store knows, and the candy knows, and every child in America knows. In Japan we also tempt children at registers, but gently, apologetically. This is not gentle. This is doctrine. I watched a battle unfold. A boy, perhaps five, seized a chocolate bar with the speed of a practiced raider. "Mom. MOM. Can I get this?" "Put it back. We have candy at home." "But THIS candy—" "We. Have. Candy. At home." The boy looked at the bar. The bar looked back. He returned it to the shelf with the slow grief of a soldier surrendering his sword. Then he took it again the moment she turned. The woman, without looking, said "Tyler." One word. The bar went back. Veterans, both of them. I turned to the man behind me, shaken. "The store placed them deliberately. At that height. A final toll gate." "It's the checkout aisle, dude." It is a gauntlet, and I will tell you how I know. I am a grown man of a warrior house, trained against hunger, cold, and fear. The peanut butter cups were at MY eye level too. I bought them. I was not planning to. I had a list. The list did not survive. The ambush does not check your age. It checks your heart, and mine is apparently five. The last battle of every campaign is fought at the height of a child's eyes. To the mothers of America, holding that line at every register, every day: my respect. You defend a wall that attacks from inside the castle. The cups were excellent. I will be ambushed again on Friday.