“No one's going to grieve me a third time,” she says, dismissively, which is a joke about how she's died twice (once for real—) and not about how no one likes her, a thing she is most of the time mostly over falling for when her corkscrew, exhausted mind starts trying it on.

Ruminatively, testing the weight of a coffin lid in her hand, “I suppose whatever it was that hit me in the back wasn't the worst way a person could go. Didn't see it coming, and as these things go it was quick.”

This is more brittle,

testing it out, maybe. Can she make a jest of it? It's been a year. Sometimes when there's nothing at her back she feels the wind whistling, like the moment before impact.

A glance toward Isaac: “Wouldn't someone have to poison you, for a drawn out illness?”

(She pays attention to these things, you know.)