[ The requisite for being a ghost means not having died, right? But if that's the case what does that make her? Under her breath she can't help but mutter - ]

At least that makes one of us.

[ Whether or not he hears it or not is impossible for her to know. A cloud threatens to loom over what should otherwise be (as far as she knows) a lovely evening and she catches herself, shooing it away with a shake of her head in favour of paying attention to something ridiculous instead. Thank god for purposefully short attention spans and a preference for non-serious situations. In protest she raps against the trunk with her knuckle. ]

Hey! You'd be lucky to have my soul if you won it in some weird ghost game.

[ Despite the scolding she will at least start to look for a way to open this thing. ]

And you can't blame me for being careful. Just a couple of months ago there were painted versions of ourselves trying to switch places with us.