Kira's done a winter here: on the tail end of the worst Manhattan winter he's ever lived, one chained to the other until it felt like six months of snow. Even when it was too hot, he preferred it, and if he must live in this canyon for God knows how long--let him not waste the days he can spend it in shorts, soaking up the sun, finding a new set of fucking trees to look at.

"Come on," he says, slowing to let Sonny draw alongside, catching himself on one foot in a step to tap the other at Sonny's booted ankle. "Live a little. Feel the grass under your toes, or whatever. People have purchased entire web domains to tell the world their pseudoscience about how dirt on your feet cures depression."

Kira can assure them: it fucking doesn't, but it does ground him a bit when he's not already in the mood to sleep for three days.