"You tell me."

The old man groaned. "Think about the meaning of the word."

"I don't get you."

"Hmph. Apparently you left your reason in your scotch-soaked brains. Purgatory. Purge. That which purifies. This mortal must put on immortality. Think of Purgatory as furniture restoration, cleaning and stripping the battered wood, mending breaks and scratches, making it better than new, bringing it to the condition its Maker intended."

Harry considered that. "But you said hell was do-it-yourself. Now you're making purgatory sound like something done to you."

The old man shook his head. "Nope. You yourself must cut off your right hand that sins against you, must pluck out your right eye that offends you. With God's help, it can be done. You can't do it alone, but no one can do it without your active participation."

"So, what does that mean? Am I in hell or purgatory?"

"That's up to you, Harry."

"I get to choose?"

"It's always been your choice."

"Well, obviously I choose purgatory." Harry perched again on the cot, but didn't sit still, tapping his feet and fidgeting restlessly.

"There's nothing obvious about it!" The old man was really annoyed now. "It's not that simple. If it were, do you think anyone would choose hell?"

"I knew there had to be a catch," Harry said scornfully. "There's no free lunch here, either."

"It's no catch, Harry. Let me try to explain." The old man took a deep breath. "I hate to phrase this in temporal terms, given that time is irrelevant, and only makes it sound like predestination. However, in a sense you already made your choice. Now you have to deal with its consequences."

"In other words, that door opens onto hell." Suspicions confirmed. Harry nodded grimly.

The old man glared at him. "While you share the self-absorption of the typical damned soul," he drawled sarcastically, "you do show some promising signs." The latter half of the remark carried a tone of grudging respect.