"It's Rose," said the girl, just before a waitress set their plates down in front of them. They were real generous with the fries here, and Rose looked at her plate like she hadn't eaten in days. Which, aside from that slice of pie, she hadn't, technically.

There was near-immediate face-stuffing and an afterthought of "can you pass me the ketchup and stuff?" which she hoped didn't seem weird when the condiments were in easy reach. She found that immediately making use of her hands made these things go over easier. If she'd simply grabbed them herself, they would taste of nothing but ashes for her. It was one of those pesky being-dead catches. Anything she took had to be freely given by the living. She was a hitchhiking ghost and not a stowaway or car-hijacking ghost for a reason.

Oh, sweet Persephone, these fries were good.