"Nope," I say.  "Just brown."  I turn away from the girl now and dig in my bag; I surface with an 8oz bottle of honey, a roll of gauze, a roll of fabric tape, and, from an inner pocket with a hidden zipper, my finely-honed straight razor.  I feel a spike in the girl's energy when I place the razor on the table in front of me, the shiny black bakelite handle clicking on the formica tabletop.
   The man from behind the counter brings us our drinks personally, salutes, and leaves without a word.