Las Nevades is cold at night. Wilbur knows this. Over the last few months, he's become intimately familiar with the frigid winds that whistle through the city's streets. Hell, if he didn't know any better, he'd think that this wasn't a real desert at all. (It's not. Wilbur knows it's not, but he can play along tonight. He's had a couple of drinks and he's feeling charitable.)

Anyway, cold. Wilbur tugs his coat collar up around his neck and rubs his hands together in an attempt at warmth.