Yeah.

He makes a note of that. "Definitely no secret additional layer of ghosts?"

The shoulders of the jacket move in either a sharpish sigh or a small, single laugh. 

I've seen no sign of one.

We are cutting down on the snark over here so Cam doesn't say anything.

I mostly hope there isn't.  It's been bad enough hanging out here with all my books for not even a decade.  I really don't want to have to see what happens a million years after the sun envelopes the Earth or whatever.

Maybe unless we convert all society into ghosts first.  We'll see.

"Are people who die old still infirm?"

Thoughtful tap-tap-tap...

I think not the way you mean it.  It doesn't hurt, right, for my dad to have an axe in his face.  We don't hurt, on our own.  But things still impair us in obvious ways.  If I'd died before my broken arm healed, it wouldn't hurt to use it but it'd be kind of wiggly and not as stable as the other one.

"So cataracts and wobbliness and stuff are still bad."

Cataracts moreso than wobbliness.

The jacket glides to be rather more than a little taller than Cam, at the shoulder.  It stays up there to write, in significantly worse handwriting,

ι十`s   ħo +   լ|кc ш୧ '/e  ப ട

It descends.

It's not like we're using our bodies to interact with the world much.  Although apparently telekinesis is a lot better at slamming doors than writing.  Maybe if I practiced.  Or was closer.

"Can you, like, fly, I just realized that might be an implication of being able to navigate underground at all."

I already said that I could.

The papers shuffle themselves around until the relevant page is on top.

"Ah, so you did."

It's fine.  But it would be a lot better if I had more than a yard.

"How fast can you get?"

I can get from one corner to the other and be accelerating the whole time.  I don't have numbers.
(Underground corner to opposite air corner)

"Huh, it's sort of weird to me that you have to accelerate like a physical object would."

Jacket shrug.

Cam taps his fingers on the book, still open to the last page of ingredients, then pushes it away from him to reposition the notebook more conveniently. He goes over their conversation to date and extracts the facts to mark down in small neat handwriting.

The jacket goes and lies on the bed after a minute.  Floating, to get there, rather than climbing on.

"So besides maybe my computer, maybe a generator if I can borrow one, etcetera, anything I should bring next time I'm by?"

Hup.

I wouldn't mind a new book.  Ideally one that can mostly stay open on its own.

He'll go scan the bookshelf for a taste assessment.

Lots of things that seem likely to have been picked up secondhand, and are a fair few obvious library discards.  Some Baudelaire, some Dostoevsky, some Homer, some Hugo, some Orwell, some King, some Christie, some Lackey.  Sci-fi omnibus.  Poe Omnibus.  Doyle Omnibus.  The Kite's Attending 100th anniversary illustrated set, in far better condition than anything else on the shelves.  A collection of textbooks that overlaps by almost half with Cam's set for this year.  Medical history, history of plagues, of witches, of esoteric societies.

"Any particular section need filling out more than the others?"

I might be too distracted by real life death??  are we doing the dumb cutesy phrase swap outs do you think?—by events which are actually happening to me, to be able to really appreciate anything very deep tomorrow.