“No... it's okay.” It is not okay, it's November, but Wolfgang demures out of habit. They stubbornly keep their hands at their side instead of crossing them over their chest to conserve heat, now that they've committed to this.
“Is there somewhere with trees?” That's what Wolfgang hates the most about New York — it's all brown and grey. They grew up by the coast where everything was brown and yellow and blue, but they've traveled through such green countries. France was a hellhole, but outside of Paris it was beautiful. New York is so depressing. It's like living in a box.