I mean, sure, there's an abundance of olive green and hunter green bomber
jackets out in the market right now, but that really isn't my style.
Not that it mattered, for there were no latches to keep them
out and nobody within calling distance except Uncle Potty on the other side of the jhora ravine, who would be drunk on the floor by this hour, lying still but feeling himself pitch about — «Don't mind me, love,» he always told Sai after a drinking bout, opening one eye like an owl, «I'll just lie down right here and take a little rest --» They had come through the forest on foot,
in leather
jackets from the Kathmandu black
market, khaki pants, bandanas — universal guerilla fashion.