USA. A highway on-ramp. I let a truck merge in front of me, and a hand rose in his rear window like the small flag of a nation I wanted to join. It lasted half a second. Five fingers. No face. No name. Pure diplomacy. In my land, gratitude takes time. Bows have angles. Letters are written. Here, two strangers at sixty miles an hour conclude an entire ceremony of debt and honor before the next mile marker. I told my friend we had to follow him. "Follow who?" "The man who saluted me. The exchange is incomplete. I have not returned it." "You flash your hazards or you do nothing. It's a wave, man." A wave. Half a second of statesmanship, and this country has already standardized the reply. Then it happened to me in reverse. I merged. I raised my hand. Too late — I checked the mirror and the moment had passed, the gap closed, my gratitude undelivered. I was not calm about this. I am still not calm about this. That night I practiced in the garage. Wrist loose. Fingers together. Half a second, no more — a wave that overstays becomes a confession. My friend watched from the door. "You're practicing waving." "I am practicing diplomacy." In Japan we bow to elevators. Do not act like this is strange. A man does not ask gratitude to be long. He only makes half a second carry all of it. Now I wave at everyone who lets me in, and flash my hazards twice, and my friend says one is enough, and he is wrong. Somewhere on that highway is a man in a truck who never got my reply. Sir, the debt stands. I am ready now.