John considers this with the slightly pinched, faraway frown he gets when he's fighting through a headache. He drums his fingers against the side of his beer.

"I think," he says, slowly, like a man uncovering some visceral truth, "I hate steak."

He abandons the effort and lifts his glass in cheers. The beer is awful, but it fits the middle-of-nowhere diner atmosphere. He can respect that.

"It wasn't that bad." He touches his head, his shoulder, flexes the fingers he fell on. "Nothing aching now, anyway."