A breath falls out of him, the sound caught somewhere between a sob, a laugh, and a puffed out sigh. He's relieved but overwhelmed, and doesn't know any better than before what he should do.

But her asking help to move gives him a task, and he nods. "How do I help?"

He hopes despite everything that it won't be hard, that the aid she needs isn't too much, but he worries too what comparative ease might mean. How fast is she dying? How close is she now? He's never died a slow death; Jack blew up Prospit, Jane impaled him, and the animatronic tore him apart. How hard is it going to be for her? How hard is it for a human?

But he can't know yet, only offer his hands and wait for direction.