[ There is, at that moment, a lot of thoughts going on behind Andy's deadpan stare. A large chunk of it is just processing — which is easier than it might have been six or seven months ago, now that she's living with the once-god Apollo and met gods and was briefly brainwashed into thinking she was a god — but in dwelling on that question, some part of her just violently recoils from the idea of any life after death.

That part doesn't want anything but rest. Peaceful, black oblivion. Nothingness.

Suddenly the subject prickles at her more than it did before. Maybe a little of it is some odd, misplaced jealousy. Must be nice to have died twice. Andy can hardly manage it once. ]

Listen — demigod, whatever you are — it's not your fucking problem. Or your fucking business. I don't need a preview of the real estate — I don't want to go anywhere after. And I'd half rather go on the stupid date than talk about how I can't fucking die.