"I know you could," says Iman quietly, smiling a little more easily. She can sense that fear of babbling too, too well, and she reassures reflexively: "It's not boring. It's what you love to do, that's never boring."

She pulls herself a little closer, not quite going so far as to rest her head on Greta's shoulder or anything, but contact is finally becoming comforting again, and contact with Greta is - well, it's easy, because Greta is a naturally affectionate person and she has no idea that this could mean anything more to Iman, so - well it's disingenuous, sure, but Iman is going to take it because she can't do anything else, she's too tired and too much in need of it.

This gesture is rewarded by a sound that barely registers, but it doesn't need to for her instincts to fill her in completely because it's like an animal thing, if she does anything and a male voice is there to mutter or coo anywhere near her the words don't matter because she knows the goddamn score.

She tenses very slightly. She doesn't look around to find the guy. It's possible Greta didn't even notice, and she doesn't want to draw attention to them. It's just buried knowledge: we are now being watch, critiqued, judged. Ordinarily this would be simple. She would turn, she would confront, she would make a scene. Nobody fucks with the starfucker. She bareknuckle-boxed her way through college. She'll mess you up. All y'all better take heed.

She can't do that now. She can't fight with this uneven balance distribution, a dead limb hanging at her side, her speed and strength are halved. Without her arm she is nothing but a small, unassuming woman in a hijab, holding the arm of another woman. She is a prime target. And she can't burn anyone down anymore.

Her only response is to pick up the pace just a little.