[He has his attention, wavering thing that it is, and that's good enough for now. When the human mind is dancing around in a haze, it's harder for Connor to connect, harder for his words crafted from reason to land and stick; but catching his eye contact as if it were ensnared in a net, even with Hank leaning away, he can talk some sense into him.

There's a lot of ways he could reply to that. For Hank's sake, he pushes down something that might be edged with slight sarcasm (his own stress levels have continually climbed in these weeks, making amicability harder when someone refuses to cooperate), and instead speaks evenly, calmly.]

Someone trying to help you. Someone trying to relay to you that you're not dying, because we don't know for certain that the plague on Struxta acts similarly to how it did in the past. This place is... strange, in many ways. Astoria is working to find a cure. And I'm not going to let you die.

I just need you to follow me. Can you do that?