It was fucking cold. Everybody who had any sense had gone south, to Texas or Mexico or South America, planting themselves on the equator with a rum drink in one hand and their eyes on the television coverage of the advancing glaciers. Everybody except for Ray, who had planted himself in Chicago, because Ray apparently didn't have any sense.
But he had Fraser, and Ray figured Fraser had enough sense for both of them. Besides, Fraser wouldn't leave Chicago, and they were a duet. Together they'd made it through the Arctic. Surely they'd make it through the new Ice Age.