My fingers twiddle in his direction. “Hey, Walker.” Technically, he’s named WKR-7, but I’ve called him Walker for as long as I can remember.

“Good morning.” Walker nods his skull-like head. If he were a few inches taller, the movement would knock his cranium through ceiling, and he’s on the short side for a ghoul. It’s a mystery how Walker and the rest of the undeadlies handle an eternity of being so crazy-tall.

Walker pulls back his low-hanging hood, showing pale, almost colorless skin and a strong bone structure. He sports the same hairstyle from the day he died: a brush cut with sideburns and no beard. Great black eyes peep at me from deep sockets.

I grin. It’s nice to have Walker around. Most ghouls are obsessed with rules and act irritating as Hell. But Walker? He pushes boundaries like a pro, especially when it comes to sneaking me into the Arena. Having him around is like having a cute and somewhat sneaky older brother, only one without a pulse.

“Be careful, Myla.” Walker’s thin lips droop into a frown. “That’s no way to greet your overlords. I don’t mind, but other ghouls could send you to a re-education camp.”

I roll my eyes. Purgatory is one massive bureaucracy with the charm of suburbia and the fun of a minimum-security prison. All the work’s done by unpaid quasis like me (we’re not allowed to call ourselves ‘prisoners’). Ghouls keep us in line and make sure we’re–cough, cough–super happy in our service.

I’m ready to complain about all this to Walker for the millionth time when Mom pipes into the conversation.

“Greetings, my beloved overlord.” She’s laying it on thick to make up for my sloppy hello. “Want some decaf?” She bows.

Walker nods; ghouls love java.

Mom picks up one of Walker’s loopy sleeves, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips. “This is a little threadbare. Are you here for a new one?” All quasis must perform a service; Mom sews and mends robes. It could be worse. My friend Cissy’s mom is a ghoul proctologist.

“No, thank you.” Walker eyes the coffee pot greedily.

Mom hands him a full mug marked ‘Afterlife’s Greatest Ghoul.’ Her chocolate eyes nervously scan his face. “What service do you require then?”

Walker frowns. “Myla must battle in the Arena today.”