USA. A Southern restaurant. My glass was still half full, and the pitcher was already in motion. Sweet. Tea. Unrequested. Refilled. I lifted my hand. "I have not finished this one." "Oh, hon, I'll just top you off." Top you off. As if I were a canteen. As if thirst were a hole that must never show daylight. In my land, tea is poured once, with ceremony, and the guest is left in peace. Here, the tea is sweet, the pitcher is enormous, and the woman who carries it treats an empty inch of glass like a wound that must be closed immediately. I drank to be polite. She refilled. I drank again. She refilled. My friend watched me drown in hospitality. "Just put your hand over the glass." Over the glass. Block the kindness. In America, refusing a refill is considered ruder than accepting six. By the third pitcher I understood the system. This was not service. This was a declaration: you are not leaving thirsty on our watch. The food arrived. I looked at it the way a man looks at land he can no longer reach. "Y'all good on tea?" "We are drowning," I said. "Perfect," she said, and walked away. I was not hungry. I was not comfortable. I had been defeated by a beverage. Sweetness that arrives before thirst cannot be refused. Generosity poured faster than a man can drink cannot be repaid. It can only be survived. I know the rule now. Hand over the glass. One glass. Two at the most. Who am I deceiving. There is no number of refills I would refuse. The pitcher of this nation is always moving, and I intend to honor all of it.