It's already painting his fingertips in red, but the pain is secondary to the objective, the urgent pull to Jay's voice as he pleads for him that they have to go. He gropes out wildly, fingertips raking the surrounding leaves in search of the solidity that would betray Jay's presence.

He finds him, fingertips wrapping around a thin, bony wrist.

"I gotcha." A lie if he ever heard one, but at least it spurs Tim to his feet. "C'mon."

They have to go.