A restaurant in America handed me a cup of soda. Then the waiter said two words and walked away. “Free refills.” I sat in silence. I understood the gravity of it. This was a trial of endurance, set by the establishment, to test the spirit of the customer. To accept free and then leave anything behind would shame my ancestors. They were watching. I felt them watching. So I drank. I refilled. I drank. I refilled. The machine and I became one. An hour passed. Then two. The ice ran out. My hands shook. A small child at the next table pointed at me and asked his mother a question. She pulled him away. At cup fifteen I could no longer feel my teeth. At cup eighteen I began to see sounds. I did not stop. A samurai does not retreat from “free.” This was no longer about soda. This was about who I am. At cup nineteen the manager came out. He gently took the cup from my hands and said, “sir, you can go home.” I had lost. I bowed to him and left, sloshing with every step. In America, how many refills is the winning number? Tell me, so the next man knows when to stop.