He's in a foreign place with strangers trying to figure out a way back and make it in one piece. He's not going to let his pride get in the way or complain about handouts, shady as they might be.

The scent of bacon makes his stomach rumble and John averts his gaze, seemingly embarrassed. He's grateful for the conversation, tugging on his oversized shirt and clearing his throat.

"Uh. Liverpool." He's sick of being picked on as the poor kid from the government housing block, so he's not saying much more than that. "It's in England, next to Manchester. Maybe four or five hours from London." Everyone knows London, right?