It wasn't as bad as we thought it would be. The dead emerged, squinting, pawing at the gates and pushing on doors that were meant to be pulled. If they managed to get inside, they ate our food, and they slept in our beds, but all you had to do was give them a little shove and they'd curl up on the floor. Chances are, by the time you woke up, they'd be gone, the empty fridge and a slight depression in the carpet the only signs they'd ever been there at all.

They didn't smell. They were extremely light on their feet, so even if there were hundreds of them milling in a park or a shuffling along a boardwalk, they hardly made a sound. Dead children clambered in the trees and crawled under the wrought iron tables in city plazas like pigeons. Dead adults went to ice cream shops and sampled every flavor then waited in line at the department stores to try on clothes they would never buy.

They had no memory, so even if you saw your dead grandmother or your friend with the congenital heart problem or the boy who stood next to you at eighth grade graduation who years later pulled his car to the side of the road and shot himself in the head, they'd walk right past you. So we were relieved when we heard the breach was being repaired. One day they left, migrating in great herds, followed here and there by an angel dragging the stragglers.

It was all we talked about for a long time. Do you remember the time we found a dead guy dog-paddling in the neighbor's pool? Do you remember when so-and-so backed up her car over the girl, and it turned out she was already dead? On our way to and from work we'd eye people loitering on street corners and wonder if the angels had missed anyone.

Some people blamed the Queen of Heaven for letting her emotions get the better of her. Others said it was a good reminder for us to enjoy life while we could. We started sampling different ice cream flavors, newfangled ones with bacon or balsamic vinegar and old-fashioned ones we'd never bothered to try. Pistachio had been my grandmother's favorite. I'd waved to her when I spotted her feeding ducks at the park. She smiled politely before turning back to the pond, tossing bread crumbs as the ducks pounced.

When I saw the boy who stood next to me at eighth grade graduation, I couldn't see a hole in his head. He was all grown up, lingering in the greeting card aisle of the grocery store. In middle school, I'd been unpopular. Most of the other kids teased me, but he had always been kind. I thought about saying something. I thought about buying him a thank-you card. He caught my eye, and for a moment I thought he recognized me. Then he shook his head and said, "I forgot what I came here for."

Later, when the dead returned to the underworld, and all the news outlets for once agreed that peace was restored, I found myself checking the greeting card aisle every time I went to the store. I took my time scanning the cards: Happy Anniversary! Congratulations! Thinking of You. Get Well Soon. Bon Voyage! Blank Inside.

I didn't admit to anyone—I hardly admitted to myself—that when I came home late, even if my door was locked and my fridge was full, I hoped I'd pull back the covers of my bed and find someone dead in there.