The meal continues, with you picking at your humble offering while the giants scarf down truckloads. The crushing, crunching noise of their jaws working is terrifying, expecially when you find at least one member of the family has their eyes glued on you at all times. You could not be more at their mercy.
"Dahlia," George declares eventually, dabbing ineffectively at his lips with a napkin, "I'm trusting you."
"Me?" the teen gasps, dropping her knife with a resounding 'clang'. "You want me to have him? To have him to keep?"
"Oh no, no, no. We'll need him to make a li'l money, but after I saw you save his life back there, I thought to myself, I thought: 'George, that there Dahlia has what it takes to care for your li'l moneymaker'."
"It's a big responsibility, raisin' a child," Mabel offers.
Dahlia actually cracks a smile at that. "Well, it ain't like he's a baby or nuthin', so it ain't all bad. C'mere, you!"
Her hands come for you again, this time cupping behind you to block all lines of retreat. Your three-quarter inch tall body is effortlessly borne aloft on the warm platform of her skin, raised up before her beaming face.
"Well, while they get acquainted," Mabel says, "Tyler! Durden! Y'all're helpin' mom with the dishes!"
There are groans from the twins, but the rest of the scene is lost as Dahlia begins walking, the shuddering impact of her footsteps drowning what few sounds aren't deadened by the walls of her fingers. In time she lowers her hands, the fingers dropping like a drawbridge. Taking the hint, you scamper across them to a bedside table while the girl sits on the bed itself, an imposing figure hunched to look down at you.
The room is painted black, and posters of pale-faced singers coat the walls. With the teen looking down at you right now, you'll have no better chance to try and communicate your way out of this. Unless you're so dedicated to your principles that you consider talking to be cheating, and want to survive this without any outside assistance of any kind?