Splinters of memories pushed their way up like bone through skin: falling, drowning, being shot, eaten by a creature ... only for brief flashes, like a poorly cut montage made from single frames. She shook them off, reassured by her smile.

"It doesn't matter what I like better. If you're Death, that's what I'll call you."

It isn't as though she's afraid of her, after all. She smiles back, and ruffles her hair, just to see if it feels as fluffy as it looks.

"So where do we get a hot dog?"