He tilts his head slightly, a little surprised at her assumption, though she's not entirely wrong. He supposes he wouldn't expect someone who's already familiar with the otherworldly to ask how so much as, perhaps, why. But that would be much harder to answer, ironically.

The question she does ask is a bit easier, at least. "No, I can't," he says. "I... I might've, if some things had been different. I'm not sure." That's an awfully esoteric thing to offer, and he hesitates, fidgeting a bit with his hands. "If we hadn't come here, I mean," he amends. "I might've been... changed, I guess." He doesn't much like thinking about it — what Peter Lukas might have teased out of him, what could have become of him if he'd fallen deeper down the path he'd been pursuing. Sometimes he wonders if he was changed, if it's just in ways he doesn't notice. It's not as if it was apparent to John, not at first. And it's not as if the Lonely didn't leave its mark.

An involuntary shiver runs up his spine and he rubs absently at the back of his neck. He's not sure any of this was enough of an explanation, but he sort of hopes she doesn't ask for a follow-up.