Greta lets herself be led, lets Iman help ease her down onto her pillow. Maybe it's just as well, she thinks, a bit distantly. Iman can't take care of her and feel useless. She still might be helping her friend, in a backwards sort of way. Not that this is any more fixable than Iman's arm.

The hand on her hair is nice, though, and she manages a weak, bleary smile - though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. As Iman fetches her phone, Greta scoots back on the bed, making room. Presuming Iman's joining her. She hopes so. She doesn't want to feel like an invalid, being tended again, she just wants...

... Well. Many things, most of which are beyond her. But Iman isn't, and Greta's arm scoots forward across the coverlet, a not entirely conscious reach for her. "That's nice," she murmurs a few moments into the song.