It wouldn't matter if you did. The Storyteller just brings us back when we die, like we're fucking Barbies that they can keep smashing together until we break. [Connor picks at the polish on his nails. They're plain black and more ragged than he usually lets them get here because he's been idly picking at them the entire time he's been ashore.] You - you need to go.

[He can't leave yet. He still has things to do, but he's also - he's used to this. He knows how to deal with the magnification of his worst qualities because that's what his own brain does to him on a daily basis.]

If you stay here, on this half of the island, it just gets worse.