A grocery store called Trader Joe’s. I had been inside for thirty seconds when a bell rang behind the registers. Twice. Then twice more. Then once. I dropped into a low stance and reached for a sword I have not carried since 1868. In my country, that is the bell of a castle under attack. Two strikes: the enemy is at the wall. Two more: the wall is breached. One strike: hold the inner gate to the last man. No one else moved. A woman selected a frozen burrito with the calm of a person who has made her peace with death. A young man in a Hawaiian shirt walked toward the front. I fell in behind him, to guard his flank. “You need something?” “Where is the breach.” “The what?” “The bell. Two, two, one. The gate is failing.” “Oh, that just means we need another register open.” A code. Of course. He could not say “the gate is failing” aloud, not with civilians in the aisles. I admired his discipline. I gave him a single nod, warrior to warrior, to let him know his secret was safe with me. He opened register four. I stood beside it, facing the door, watching for the enemy, while he scanned a woman’s almond butter. “Sir, you can go ahead and shop.” “I will hold this position. Open your register. I have you.” He looked at me for a moment. Then he said, “okay, man,” and kept scanning, which is exactly what a captain says to a soldier he has decided to trust. I now shop at Trader Joe’s every Sunday. I have appointed myself to the bell. When it rings, I move to the opening register and stand guard until the line is clear. The crew has stopped asking what I am doing. This, I believe, is the highest honor they can give a foreign warrior. They have simply added me to the watch. The wall has not fallen on a single one of my Sundays. You are welcome.