"All right," she says, her hand raised in defense. "I'm just askin'."

She smiles to herself in spite of his surliness. There's something uniquely charming about Rush being nice to Greta, nice about her.

She reaches over to lift her dead arm up, closing it up delicately. It's a little lighter now, all scraped out like that; small favors. She drags it off the table and slides down from her chair, padding over to the kitchen to pour herself some water, moving a little unsteadily.

"Fuck me," she remarks. "It's not even noon."