John rummages through the drawers beside Martin, double-checking the tags until he's found a few things that should fit him. He isn't sure how much he should be taking, and he isn't sure he wants to ask. Part of him still thinks Darrow could be a normal city somewhere on Earth. It might be a long way from Bournemouth, but that doesn't mean he couldn't get home by this time tomorrow, if someone helped them properly. He won't need more than one outfit for that.

But then Mr. Keane says years, and John looks up at him in shock. He can't be stuck here for years. His grandmother will think something awful has happened to him.

And then he wonders, with a sick swooping feeling in his stomach, if Mr. Keane means to leave them here, after all. What else could he do, if he thinks they're stuck in Darrow like he is? It's not as if he's going to bloody adopt them.

John wants to argue, and he wants to change into clothes that fit, but all he can do is stand there, clutching the bundle of clothes to his chest with one arm while his eyes fill with tears. None of this makes sense, and he hates it.