Irene's mouth hooks in a smile. "Let's find out," she says, and looks to the bartender; "something with whiskey, please."

I died, or am in some final stage of the process. She repeats that in her mind. It shakes her badly. What if she's in a similar state? It could happen. She'd never expected to die in her sleep, but it could happen.

She shakes herself out of her reverie, pins that smile back on her face. "Not so ugly, dear. Consider them conversation starters. Everyone loves a girl with stories." She turns to accept the drink the bartender holds out to her. "I only got here today, same as you. Remotely sane sounds like an excellent end-goal to press for, but as of this precise moment I really don't think we need to over-exert ourselves." Firmly; giving herself friendly advice as much as Caroline. "Breathe deep, drink up, carry on until the shock wears off or we wake up or something else."

And she lifts her glass. "Irene."