"Everything," I command, whipping a finger at the table top.
Obediently they start to overturn their pockets, each and every one lining their cargo pants. Starting from the top, between the both of them, they drop pocket knives, pens, cellphones, a pack of cigarettes and two lighters, matches, masking tape, duct tape, a bag of nails, a screwdriver, a miscellaneous bolt, three and a half muffins, a can of tuna, canteens, and a napkin with an indecipherable map.
Everything has a light coating of white powder.
"Uh, we bake," one answers, patting his hands nervously against his chest, letting fly the tiny, floating particles.
"Sure," is my reply as I watch, surely bug-eyed, as the other starts to unravel the thick rope wound around his torso.