"Cheers," murmurs John, and he takes the handkerchief. Handing it back smudged scarlet with his blood feels— wrong, in the migraine sort of way, which he's growing impatient with. He dismisses it as rude regardless and tucks the dirty handkerchief in his pocket. He can give it back when no one's bleeding from the face about cows.

"Any advice on where to start? I'm finding headaches under every stone. Literally, here."