All things considered, Max shouldn't be accepting drinks from near-strangers. But this isn't Nathan Prescott.

She might not remember his name, but he wasn't Nathan Prescott, so he's automatically more trustworthy than he might have been.

She follows his directions, sipping the tea cautiously, glad to find it not too hot, and focuses on the flavor, counting three seconds in her head before swallowing.

"S'good." Her voice is tight, scratchy, but she's no longer hyperventilating and can talk, so that's a plus.