Wesley hadn't budged from his spot and honestly, Conrad couldn't blame him. The Brit couldn't even imagine how he'd react if the situation were reversed. If he saw someone up and walking around after absolutely, positively declaring them dead, he'd probably believe himself to be insane.
So Conrad would take a step inside the medical room, offering Wesley a casual shrug. "Maybe I am?" He lifted his shirt, just enough to display the scar that the bullet had left: a marred knot of skin, roughly the size of a quarter, just above the dip of his stomach. "Why don't you come over here and check my pulse to be sure?"
Because maybe Conrad needed to hear it from someone else; that he was alive and all of this wasn't just some bizarre figment of his imagination.