It's not enough. he wants to say. This hangdog looking kid who lights up at the thought of being able to just feed himself if he needs to--he's a good kid, he doesn't deserve that.

He wants to stick something sharp in whoever or whatever put that kind of hunger in a guy like this. He reminds John of Co in all the wrong ways, trampled on but untested. The tiniest scrap of hope still in him where he can see something meaningful or even magical in basic survival training.

All the aches and pains, the cold and the loneliness--all of the stuff he learned to give up on in prison just wants to come crawling out of him again with a suddenness that makes him vaguely nauseous for a second.

I won't fail you like I did her.

The colder, more direct thought makes the agony settle again, lets him breathe and reclaim his equilibrium.

"Survival's a right. Not a privilege." he replies softly. "S' no trouble, promise."