Frank leans over to knock his fist into the man's arm (ineffectually, of course.) It isn't often he feels small, but it's pretty amusing in this context, at least. He hands Maine mittens out of his pocket and shakes his head. They're bright teal but warm as hell.

"I got here in Summer, yeah. It was hot then, keep biding your time, man. It'll come around."

In the mean time, he's going to race around with the dogs like a crazy man, laughing as he feints right then goes left towards the cut wood. They bark at him and nudge at his legs as he picks up a bundle. Frank has never minded the cold. Better than the unforgiving heat of the desert any day.