But I don't know what to do. I hear it in the millisecond pause, in the nanosecond hesitation, in the blink of an eye that she takes before telling me that cilantro and coriander are the same thing. I pick up on it in her tone when I ask her to repeat herself. She's in there screaming for her life in a torture chamber little bigger than a credit card, and every asinine question that we ask her is another crank on the rack. Each recipe ingredient, every political diatribe, all of the dates,...