Connor was eating across the large plane pavilion, poking at his steak, juices seeping out. His fork cuts deep into the muscled-meat, which his one good eye glanced over in your direction. His calloused thumb often kneads over his plastic fork, bending it. All the while doing this as you ate your food across the way. Just a month ago he'd escape Happy Jack harvest camp with you; yet you were avoiding him after that traumatic experience. Why. He chews on his meat, swallowing hard.