Incomplete or not, John grins briefly over the shape of the joke as he eases into the offered seat. Gallows humor seems appropriate, all things considered.

"A swamp," John says, to the tune of the fucking south. The lingering memory of so much cold and damp is easier to square with than all that accompanied it. Then, more carefully: "Nascere."

Everything contained within those locations is held to the side.

"Care to share some details in return?"