It took every hard, cold memory of medicated agony and white, padded walls to keep the poker face from peeling back and revealing the genuine grinning underneath the wooden mask. Start a riot? It was very surreal to her that somebody was trying to amuse what she'd invited. That was what he was doing, right? The pencil was stole back gently from the top without looking him in the face, which she now avoided, especially the neighborhood of his eyes (which now, if cast in shadows instead of bathed in fluorescent light...), because she didn't want him to make her smile. Not unless it was fake. Not unless she decided she wanted to.
The pencil was poised over the paper for a few reluctant moments, flicked around, before it began scratching back its answer.
If you did, I'd be in your debt forever.
It's not like he'd really do it. The corner of her mouth just faintly, almost, just barely, smiled.