Jay's eyebrows slowly raise, eyes still half-lidded.

He looks at Tim.

Tim's not tearing up the corner of a notebook, not clicking the lid of his pill bottle open and shut, but there's something in the way he pauses that gets Jay's attention. Jay's got a feeling Tim's hearing the same thing he did. He's got a feeling he doesn't have to say anything, even if the desire to construct some kind of snide remark, to twist the knife just a little, just enough is itching under his skin. (Oh, just enough?)

Instead, he takes a long, slow bite out of the last remaining hard-boiled egg. "Huh."

It's a useful tip, he'll grant. It's all been too much, too quickly, for Jay to be as diligent as he'd like to be. Not as easy to check for deviations from normal if he's got no idea what "normal" means here.

"Have they, like...slipped up, ever?" The sarcasm has dropped from his voice. He's not asking because he doubts what Tim's saying. He's asking because he wants to know what to look out for, maybe see if there's a way to get them to slip up again. Tim's been here two years. He knows his way around.

And Jay's sick of being two steps behind.