It is cold and she shrugs into the coat gratefully. They're still the same size enough that it fits her, but she notices that without its bulk her brother seems somehow smaller than he should. His clothes hang from him in a way that's subtly wrong, something difficult to notice unless you were just leaning on him on a bus not half an hour ago.

She does not like that. She doesn't really like a lot of this, at the moment. Including being asked something like that.

"Dipper, you know I never remember anything from first thing in the morning," she scolds gently. The walkie-talkie long since fallen, she pulls another item from -- her hair, or her sweater, or wherever the hell she was keeping it. Mabel's personal art student hammerspace. "Anyway, I did grab the most important thing I saw."

It's the scrapbook, as bright and festive as she is against the browns and grays of winter.