He does not react. Not in the ways she is looking for, more than enough in the ways she will notice. A fallen teacup is not a gunshot. A reaching hand is not a guard dog twenty-three paces behind you. A reaching hand is not throwing a knife or vaulting over the table. A fallen teacup will not irreparably damage the carpet. He made sure of that. He notices, and he does not react. He is looking for something else.

“Maybe. I repeat: I was a chef.” And there’s more he could try to say, but he doesn’t. There’s a button he could press, and his finger hovers on it in readiness, but he doesn’t. “Please have patience. And please be still. I repeat: I mean you no harm. I want to help you. I need your help to get you back safely.” 

He does not slip out of the snappy protocol rhythm. A prayer envelops it instead.

[i]“Please."[/i]