Wrench could almost laugh when the man moves like he's going to fight him. He can only imagine how disorienting it must be to be moved without explanation of why, but it's not for that reason that the reaction amuses him. Rather, he can't help thinking there's some kind of profound irony in being so distrusted by a man who can't even see him. Maybe he really is irredeemable. Even in his efforts to do something thoughtful, he nearly gets hit in the face.

It ought to make him give up, but instead he doubles down on his efforts. It could be a litmus test of sorts, he thinks. Could the man be as grateful as he claims to be? Could Wrench make someone feel better, rather than worse? The stranger still looks on the verge of panic, so he sinks to the floor alongside the chair, being none too quiet about his efforts to stay close. If any of the townsfolk have been regarding the strange little scene, they've done well to look away now. Wrench crosses his legs and watches the other man try tosteady his breathing.

So he sucks in a breath of his own, audibly, and pats the other man on the knee. Wrench holds the air in his lungs for a few seconds. When he finally blows it out, he does so slowly and audibly again, and gives the man's knee another pat like he's setting some kind of tempo.