"You remember?" His head jerks up at that, eyebrows lifting in something that isn't quite hope, but perhaps approximates it. He remembers what, exactly? Does he even want to know what it is Jay is remember? Does he want to know how much of him was conscious for the rest of it? How long he lingered, alone and in pain and afraid and without the camera he'd screamed for, screamed for?

Perhaps, like Jay, he should learn to put his impulse aside, the desire for answers aside, in favor of what's comfortable.

(But what's comfortable in this state of perpetual unknowing?)

"What...how much do you...?"

(You're making another mistake, Tim.)