He doesn't dispute what the stranger says, in large part because he can't say that he's wrong. The saniwa doesn't claim to be particularly good with people outside his spirits; he doesn't have contact with others, really. Instead, he moves on, folding his hands loosely together in his lap and considering how to explain what he's capable of.

"I'm a healer," he finally decides, though his voice wavers a little at the end as if he's not quite certain of that description. "Though I'm generally treating battlefield injuries, not drug hangovers." Still, his abilities work more or less the same way regardless of what he's healing, he thinks.

And because this stranger is clearly already wary, and the saniwa is aware that his abilities might make many uncomfortable, he unfolds his hands again and holds them up as if to ask for a pause. "Or if that idea doesn't sit well with you, I could try to find someone that can provide medicine, or a cool damp cloth that might sooth." The transport must have drivers and some sort of restroom, after all.