Somehow he's not surprised at Max's line of questioning. "Oh, uh... I don't mind. Just, y'know. It's not a pleasant story, obviously. I've avoided talking about the details with people for the most part, 'cause... don't wanna freak out someone I just met, y'know?" And, truthfully, he doesn't want to have to explain why he still feels so much sympathy for Ralph, why he's still mourning him. But he already knows Max has been through something pretty similar. If there's anyone he can talk to about it, it'd have to be him, right? "Kinda hard to talk about my health without what happened to me coming up in some way, though."

Johnny waits until the clink of drinks and plates being set on the table comes, and the sound of the waiter's footsteps fade into the general noise of the tavern. "...I guess I'll start with the legs. Muscle atrophy." That's usually where he stops for his explanation. "For the first eight years I was being held hostage, it was uh. In a big dog crate. Really fucked up my legs." He pauses to take a long drink and shove some of the croissant into his mouth before he loses his appetite. It's a finicky thing, has been for years now. "
Damn, that's some good bread. It's during the last two years that he let me out, and-- he helped me regain my strength, enough that I can stand and walk around on my own now. Except for the-- keeping me hostage in the first place, and the sacrifices, Ralph... really did try to take good care of me. I know that sounds insane, like I'm just-- coping or something, but it's true."