Oh no oh no no no. Iman arches her back and clutches Greta's hand in an agony she can almost imagine, but this is nothing like what she's been through. Iman didn't anticipate this, can't call it a necessary pain. And there is no reward, no goodness that can come of it all, no weary relief or quiet joy: just a broken arm that lies limp at her side like a dead thing.

It's too cruel.

Greta's vision blurs as Iman turns her face into her hand. There are hot tears dampening her fingers. And then Iman's grip goes slack, and Greta lets out a panicked sob, frantically wiping at her eyes so she can see what's happening, oh god, is she, has she...?

She can't. She can't.

No. She's just fainted. She's still alive. She's going to be fine. Greta buries her face in her hands, only giving herself a moment, then drops them into her lap, briskly wiping her tears and Iman's into her skirt. No more of this. She can't be useless.

"My apartment's close," she says, reaching out to help support Iman's weight. "Can you lift her on your own?"