The condensation-frosted glass was dry, so Bond followed his dinner order-- a small steak but not whatever passed for filet cooked medium rare and mashed potatoes, one of his few favourite American dishes-- with a request for a glass of their best whiskey, neat. "If you're saving anything behind the bar," Bond insisted, "now's the time to air it out."
Bond shook his head at Shannon's apology. The timbre of her voice sounded entirely sincere, and for once, he was willing to take that appearance at face value. "No, no, nothing to be sorry for. I've seen enough since my arrival that I really should accept that you are not who I think you are." Heavy-bottomed, the glass tumbler of amber liquid was set before him. Bond cupped his hands around it.
"And to answer your question: yes. You are you, and no one else, no matter what I might recall."