"I - sorry. I'm sorry, I'm just - grumpy, now. I know you're working on it as hard as you can and you're being much nicer about it than you need to. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Where do you want me to try to put you, anyway?"
"A little town called Forks, or - I can give a rough geographical drawing of it if that would be better."
"All right," says Ted, and he gets to explaining Forks in agonizing detail.
Promise writes down all the information when it's usable. "Two days," she says, "and I can give it a try."
"It might work immediately. If it doesn't... then I can try a different target, or I can keep aiming at your town until it works. I don't have nearly enough information to tell you which option gets you to mortal food sooner."
"Go with whatever seems best," says Ted, softly. "And if I can't manage - then I can't manage, I suppose."
"Well, it's less work to leave it aimed at a single location. So if you don't prefer that I keep moving it around to see if I get lucky attempting to strand you in Alaska, that's what I'll do."
Two days, if you can call them that when the sun is always up in a noncommittal just-post-dawn position making the sky pretty colors, later, she has finished setting up a gate near her tree.
"Harmonic unfriendliness," she says. "We can check it every so often to see if it's locked in, but it's not finding it right away."
And then, he curls up and tries to sleep, and not think about how his stomach's eating itself, or wondering how long it will take him to starve, or - various things.
(Worrying about how his father will worry if he - never comes home.)
It takes him about another five hours before he finally, hoarsely says, "... I think if I wait much longer I might... Literally die..."
And she nips out -
And comes back, solemn, and pours a glass of juice.
"In for a sip, in for the whole pantry, so - go on then."