They were bringing in bodies to bury still alive. No matter, the sexton said, we'll put them in this corner, under enough earth to hold them down, let birds blur their cries from these close trees. Soon enough they'd die or we'd cease to notice them. Nightly the dead would rise, start wandering, flitting restlessly, all talking so much they'd be no rest for anyone. Remember, remember, they'd say as if anyone could forget. Meanwhile the living didn't want to be forgotten, always trying to dig themselves up so we had to learn to avoid that corner, or only go there whistling loudly, wheelbarrows piled high with dead leaves and flowers, old bones. Like this, the sexton said, slicing through that deep mulch, his sharp spade slamming down. I'd feel it in my own bones. Whistling is the thing, or some mindless chatter, to hold the living and the dead at bay. The sun glittered down at day. The graveyard laid back in it, sleeping, with its well maintained paths, its roses growing everywhere. Beneath it all a muffled hysteria, the distant sound of screaming mingled with birdsong, a lull, a little world that visitors thought peaceful.