"You sound a bit sad about that," he observes, sticking his free hand into his pocket. God, he wants to get to camp. He worries he'll lose his fingertips to frostbite soon. He thinks back to those hours before, standing before his drawer of evening-gloves and thinking, no, didn't go with the ensemble. They're not thick gloves, no, but anything would have helped...

"Lonely for the other Greenes, perhaps? Wishing they were here with you?"