Hattie woke up on the ground, which led her to believe that Jill, the pit, had in fact not been endless, but 'finite', a word she had learnt for last week's crossword, before realising that the correct word was actually 'hummingbird'. 

An easy mistake, really.

In all honesty, the 'finiteness' of the pit didn't interest her in the slightest, but she stored away that nugget of wisdom in a category of her brain she like to call 'useless things that will never, ever, come up, ever,' as an ice-breaker for any future interactions with dead people she might be forced to partake in.

Blinking lazily, she raised an arm and stretched, only to hit something hot. Hattie thought it necessary to confirm that by heat, she meant the hot kind of heat, not the handsome kind of heat. 

It was so hot, that she didn't even think of lifting her arm and smacking the object again when she realised exactly what it was. 

Or rather, who it was.

Patsy loomed over her, glowing a rather horrifying shade of yellow, the glowing notebook hovering an inch above her nose, as he brandished the beheaded carrot pen in her direction, the jagged edges twinkling ominously.

"What are you doing?" Hattie shrieked, attempting to push herself onto her forearms and scramble backwards, only to be let down by her pitiful arm strength.

She landed in a heap on the floor, a millimetre from where she had woken up, and Patsy released a quiet yip, that she'd begun to realise was his laugh.

"Do you mind?" she squealed, attempting to recreate her 'foxy' pose from where she lay, sprawled out in an undignified heap on the ground. Hattie was about to blow an imaginary bubble, before she realised that Patsy had rather unhelpfully disappeared.

On one hand, this was wonderful news. She wouldn't have to fill out the application, and he would never again damage her eyes with that infuriating glow.

 But, on the other hand, he had made the most wonderfully smelling tea, and considering that all she could do now, being dead and all that, was sniff the tea, it had been rather special. There was also the surprisingly fashionable fur coat he'd conjured out of thin air, and the wonderful talk they'd had about the weather,

Hattie believed that only one percent of the population possessed the skills necessary to carry out an engaging conversation about meteorology. Patsy was not part of the one percent, but it had still been nice, she supposed. Far more interesting than the silence she'd encountered when attempting to talk to her unborn child.

She sighed, resisting the urge to bang her head against the floor a couple more times, to see if it would off her for real this time, glancing down at her stomach, instead. 

"I guess it's just you and me, again."

There was a pause, followed by a low, almost indignant whistle, and Hattie sighed once more.

"Sorry," she amended, "I guess it's just you, and me, and Jill, again."

"And me," Patsy chirped, his hand appearing from nowhere, and waving frantically.

Hattie raised her head, only to find that she couldn't see over her own stomach. So, arching her back in an impressive and agile manner, that she was quite certain would put an Olympic level athlete to shame, she twisted, until she could finally see him, crouched by her feet, hidden by the huge bulge of her belly.

He began to glow brighter, and she groaned. Hattie couldn't actually see his features, but she had a feeling he was grinning. There was something decidedly smug about the orangey colour the light had turned, and it was enough to make her want to test whether the dead could be killed.

"And me," he repeated, in a deafening squeal after hearing no response from Hattie.

For a moment, she almost wished she was alone.

There was another whistle.

All right, she corrected, alone with the slug-child and Jill, of course.

"And me," Patsy bellowed, in a surprising deep voice that would have been impressive, had he not been blinding her.

"Good Lord, Patsy, be a good chap and leave me to enjoy me death in peace, would you?"

Rolling onto her side, Hattie fixed him with a look of dismissal that she had used hundreds of times in the past, to ward off the gaggles of potential suitors who sought her out. She was, after all, a popular woman. 

In truthfulness, Hattie had used the look twice, once on Chase, and once on a goose, who had been getting a bit handsy during a family picnic. In both cases, it hadn't had much of an affect, but she swore by it.

Besides, she argued, though it didn't act as the most brilliant deterrent, she was certain it complemented her features. The raised brow worked miracles on her jawline, and she wholeheartedly believed that a sharp jawline was the secret to desirability.

Patsy began his laughing again, and Hattie scowled.

"Miss," he gasped, through a peal of disturbing squeaks, that were beginning to sound as though a pig was being slaughtered in front of her. "You're not dead."

Hattie stopped, dropped as low as she could, and rolled. She couldn't remember what that specific maneuver was for, but she was certain it would do something to help the situation. 

Patsy watched her carefully, as though he would have to conjure a strait-jacket to contain her, along with a padded room, and at least a dozen therapists.

"What do you mean?" Hattie questioned, feeling slightly light headed, and rather dizzy.

"That you aren't dead," he repeated, much slower, as though she hadn't processed it the first time.

"I know that," she screeched, translucent fingers itching to wrap themselves around his neck.

Shrugging, Patsy's amber glow faded to a mellow shade of grey.

"What's the matter then?"

Hattie growled, trying to push herself up and failing miserably.

There was a whistle, this one rather specific, seeming to tell her not to do anything stupid that could potentially affect her chances of getting into a good afterlife.

"Whatever, Jill," Hattie shouted, the sound echoing loudly.

Patsy inched closer, clicking discreetly behind his back, and dangling the set of handcuffs that appeared on his index finger, with feigned nonchalance.

"At least wait for a lawyer," Jill whistled.

Hattie growled again, eventually managing to force herself off the ground. She launched herself at Patsy, only to be stopped from truly causing any damage by her stomach.

It really was getting rather tedious, the whole pregnancy business.

"Patsy, you slug," Hattie spat.

He had the indecency to look confused, bewildered even, scratching his head nervously, fingers tightening their grip around the notebook and pen.

Stomping towards him, she reached over the mound of her belly, extending her hands, and wrapping them around his neck, fully intending to throttle the death out of him, before he disappeared with an audible pop.

Hattie stumbled into the empty space where Patsy had been standing, checking on both sides of her stomach in case he'd somehow hidden himself again.

"Patsy?" she called, voice wavering with uncertainty.

Reappearing with another pop, he scowled at her, glowing an angry shade of red, and picking up the handcuffs, notebook and pen he'd dropped during her murder attempt.

 Patsy turned away from her with a loud 'hmph', and disappeared once more.

This time, Hattie had a sinking feeling it was permanent.

Well, she thought, at least she got to keep the coat.