Nothing. There's that word again. Greta wants to object, but can't really think of anything reassuring to say that couldn't just as easily be taken as awful. She's glad the limb isn't painful, but how much comfort can be milked from that when it's also effectively dead? It would be like someone trying to ease her mind over her absent family by pointing out that at least her son can't wake her up in the middle of the night anymore. It doesn't even qualify as a silver lining, let alone some kind of boon.

So she says nothing, just supporting Iman on her way over to the bed. Once her friend is settled on the mattress, Greta sits down beside her.

"I'm sorry, too," she says, though it's no more her fault than Iman's. But if they're going to toss out general apologies for one another's rough days, there's no question of whose was rougher. "That the Rift... did that." She shakes her head and stares down into her lap for a moment, then looks back up at Iman. "But it could have been worse," she starts in what she hopes is a bracing tone, though she can't keep her voice from wavering a little as she concludes, "We could have lost all of you."

No, no. She needs to be the strong one. Greta curls an arm around Iman's shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. She's alive. She's here. She may not be fine, but at least she's still here, and that is enough. "I'm glad we didn't," Greta says, and her voice is perfectly steady.