"It's no trouble," she insists, quiet but firm. He's having an exceptionally hard day, the relief of getting his body back counterbalanced by an unnecessary heaping of tragedy. Feeding him and tidying seem like small favors, and not the sort of help he really needs.

Unfortunately, it's all she really has to offer.

Greta gives his shoulder another encouraging pat. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she says.

Tidying manages to take up some time, at least. She doesn't want to do too much; it's not her place to go so far as reorganizing the contents of Tim's shelves. Her only real goal is to take care of whatever obvious chores she can, so Tim won't wake to a mess and Jay won't have to trouble himself with such mundanities. He has enough to worry about.

After an hour or so, she checks on Tim again. There's no change; he's still lying there as if bespelled, and she's not eager to try giving him anything again if it's likely to go the same as before. She huffs out a little sigh, hands twisting together in her lap, then looks up at Jay.

"I think perhaps we'd better call Aziraphale," she suggests, as gently as she can.