So I'm shopping with my ex-inlaws. The store is creepy, stacked floor-to-ceiling with used clothes; my ex-mother-in-law is wearing a long green dress (think Morticia Adams), and while I'm trying to get out of the building I run into one of the English Department secretaries, who died several years ago. She's nine months pregnant.
"But you died," I say.
She waves this away. "I got better."
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