Iman's response isn't very enthusiastic - if anything, it just sounds like a different kind of defeat. But being resigned to accepting help is better than being resigned to utter misery and self-loathing, so Greta supposes it's a reluctant quarter-turn in the right direction.

She's not quite sure how to follow Rush's promises, delivered with such intensity that she half expects all of his tools to roll a few inches away from him. But she has to say something; the atmosphere in the room has grown unbearably heavy, and Iman's in no shape to lift it. So she takes up the two cups of tea that have been standing by since just before her outburst and carries them over to the table, nudging aside a screwdriver so she can set one before Iman and the other a few inches from Rush's hand.

"I'll help any way I can, of course," she says mildly. "I don't suppose I'll be of much use with all this, but at least I can feed you." None of them have eaten since this morning, and it's getting on towards lunch. She hesitates by the table long enough to rest a hand on Iman's shoulder, then returns to the kitchen to rummage for a bread pan, the domestic clatter fending off another oppressive silence.