I'm spared by the appearance of a small army, two, two and a half inches tall, materializing on one side of my sphere of metal threads. They're speakless, but motion for me to help, and i get down some chips and cornbread for them, crumbling small enough to be manageable for them. Some congregate around the salsa trough and dip their corn chips in to moisten them.
They look tired. I don't ask them about the relative sizes of the molecules in their bodies and those in the food they're eating and air they're breathing. When you're a small tired army materializing on some table and trying to eat, chances are you'd be in no mood to discuss molecules and photons bouncemitting for me to see them and other physics difficulties. These things take care of themselves, and you might not like the answer anyway.
I don't ask where they're from, what they're fighting, and if they've had any casualties. I don't see any injuries. They don't answer that when the enemy gets you, it tends to not leave much behind to be injured.
The waiter brings me a little saucer and i pour some water for them to dip their canteens and splash their faces. Son they head back into the metal thread sphere, marching around the perimeter of the table and entering the other side.
My sandwich arrives. Frilly toothpicks.