To Finch's eyes, the device Brier has is clunky and primitive-looking, and he's privately glad his own is the smart little thing it is-- but he says nothing of that, of course. Instead he offers a smile that he tries to make reassuring. It feels rusty on his face-- he's still reeling from being whisked here, and from the week he'd had before here-- but there is nothing like the crisis of another person to distract you from your own griefs. That's a motto that Finch has wholeheartedly been living the last few years.

"I do know a little about machines like this," he says carefully, "if you'd like me to try and help you figure out how to use it?

"Would you find it easier if you could use it by talking to it, and if it talked to you?"