John wonders, with a visible flicker of worry, whether the lizard had been human. Before. But if it's not human now, perhaps he oughtn't draw attention to that possibility. It's not as though they have other meat on offer, and Arthur's body is still skinnier than it should be. Even though he's been eating a frankly excessive two meals a day.

He's never had chicken, but nods along belatedly as though he knows the smell Jack means. It was said in that way of a relatable mundane truth, and John is in the habit of playing along.

"There's a peculiar variety of options here," he says, which is admittedly a stab in the dark. But that's the sense he gets from everyone's grumbling discontent. "Better than the grasslands, at least."