"I think I'm wearing Keene's shoes," Hiro responds, staring down at the black penny-loafers that have supplanted his usual footware. He hits his cigarette again, exhaling in twinned streams from his nostrils. A sharp sniff, and he holds a gloved -- swaddled might be a better term, considering that the only gloves he could find were a size and a half too large -- hand out. "The inshtrumehnt, Mish Moneypennah."