Catskill didn’t care. She really, really didn’t care. She was a few bad haircuts away from a complete existential meltdown beyond the turmoil of emotions she was already feeling, with weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. She suspected the only reason she hadn’t had the meltdown already was because she was still processing the fact. She was dead. How was she supposed to react to that? She ran a hoof over her leg. She could still feel the hairs of her coat. Was that normal? Could the dead feel things like that? “Name’s Catskill, by the way.”