Michael takes the guitar when it’s thrust upon him, looking at Wolfgang skeptically. He’s confident that nothing will happen to the instrument if he travels with it; like Wolfgang said, nothing happens to his clothes. But people are different.
He tests it anyway, going into a shadow on the nearest wall and coming out again after a few seconds (he’d just gone outside). The guitar is fine, though cool to the touch; he hands it back to Wolfgang grumpily.
“Is there somewhere you wanna try and go?” he asks. He’d never do this if he hadn’t just slept for twelve hours. “I can get almost anywhere in the city.”