USA. A house. The garage is full, so the car sleeps in the rain. I walked past an open garage today, and I finally understand Americans. The garage was packed to the ceiling. Boxes. A treadmill. Old chairs. Three bicycles hanging from hooks. Christmas lights in a plastic tub. No room for even one more thing. And the family car? Parked outside. In the driveway. Getting rained on. I stood there, deeply moved. In Japan, we put the car in the garage and the boxes in the house. Americans do the opposite. And now I see why. The garage is the treasure house. Inside it sleep the sacred relics: the bicycle the child outgrew, the chair no one sits in, the lights that shine one week a year. These must be protected at all costs. The car is not a treasure. The car is a warrior. So the car is given the highest honor a warrior can receive. It stands guard at the gate, in the storm, all night, so the treasures stay dry. The owner came out with his coffee. He saw me looking and shook his head. “Yeah, I really gotta clean out that garage,” he said. Clean it out? I bowed to him. “You are a good man,” I said. “Your car guards your home with its life.” He looked at his car. He looked at me. He said, “...thanks?” He has never thought of it that way. But I could tell he liked it. So now every morning I walk past, and I bow to the car in the driveway. It has the hardest job in the family, and it never complains. The owner waves at me now. He thinks we are friends. We are. But mostly, I am here for the car. This morning it was raining again. The car was soaked, still guarding the gate, still faithful. So I gave it my umbrella. I do not need it. I have known harder rain. A warrior on duty should not have to stand in the storm alone.