Greta bites down on the insides of her cheeks, unable to match Rush's unshakable calm but unwilling to dissolve into a mess, not when Iman needs her. She retakes her friend's hand the moment it's offered, trying to keep her grip firm and reassuring without being too tight.

She can't look at what Rush is doing. She can't avoid looking at what Rush is doing.

Acting on a desperate impulse to give Iman something to focus on besides the pain, besides the necessary invasion into her arm, Greta reaches out with her unoccupied hand, her fingers sliding beneath the edge of Iman's hijab, her thumb stroking her cheek. Something gentle, and harmless, and good. "It's okay," she breathes, bolstered by Rush's reassurances.

But she still can't help but grimace when he reaches into the mechanics of Iman's arm and tears.