No apologies in the land of the dead. I was learning this the hard way, aided by the meaty fists of an irate Spartan warrior.

I coughed blood and tried to stand. He yelled strange syllables at me, but I’m a quick learner. I didn’t say anything.

As the crowd dispersed, a gentle hand helped me to my feet.

“Apology is big insult here, you understand?”

There was a pretty face matching the elegantly unplaceable accent, but I could hardly make it out in the (apparently eternal) dim twilight. I nodded and wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

As the place was, as far as I had observed, utterly featureless, she led me in no particular direction.

“So, what you in for?” I blinked at this.

“What do you mean?”

“I asking… how you die?” A sore subject.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Oh.” We walked in silence for a few minutes, wandering in and out of endless mobs of quietly depressed-looking people. “Where are you from?”

“Uh. New Jersey.” My mind was still there.

“I not know it. In this language, I from Atlantis.”