Greta shudders with something between a sob and a mirthless laugh when Iman pulls her in again, because what she wants has nothing to do with it. She wants everything to stop being so awful for both of them, asleep or awake, because they've been through enough. She wants to be not infected with some unspeakable illness, so they wouldn't have to do this, so she could stay - stay alive even in this terrible nightmare, because the most awful things are a little less awful when they're together and can look out for one another. She wants to stay right here, with Iman's arms around her and her hand in her hair. She wants to stop sobbing into Iman's shoulder; she wants to be braver than this, so Iman doesn't have to deal with her torment on top of her incipient loss.

But she doesn't want Iman to have to put her down like a dog, however temporary or necessary or--or merciful an act it might be. She can't ask that of her. She won't have her live with the memory of it. A small comfort, perhaps, but at least Greta and her odd twin can give her that much.

"As soon as I wake up," she says, wishing she could force it to happen on her own, wishing this didn't feel so solid and inescapably real. "The very moment, I... I promise."

As if she can promise Iman anything.

She gets to her feet, one hand braced on the wall for support, the other still clinging to Iman's. She finds herself running her thumb over Iman's knuckles, and it feels like a cruel parody of comfort, but it gives her something to focus on besides the subtle shift in Rita's stance or the alien whirring of all that machinery, and what it heralds.

She shuts her eyes, because she's not that brave, and quietly begs, "Please don't watch."

She hopes Rita will make it quick.

She's gone before she can hear the gunshot.