"Buuuut whyyyyy?" The whine filled the air, barely masked by the tinkling of wind chimes over the door. "Because we have to support small businesses," came the reply, followed by the clink of coins on the counter. "I'd rather just get a donut from the gas station on the way." The tinkling returned as the door slammed. "PattyCakes country-fresh donuts are way better than those chemically doughnut holes," said a voice from behind the counter, also masked by clinking and scraping. "I don't know, ma'am, they make 'em different these days," replied a gruff voice. "Ain't nothin' like my Aunt Bea used to do." "Mmmm, I'm sure she was a wonderful cook," the woman behind the counter concurred in that cheery voice reserved for old-timers. "But I prepared a special glaze this morning for -" The tinkling was followed by a stomping sound. "Can you guys do this later? I'm trying to get some work don-" "Ohh, I'm sorry dear," the old man interrupted. "Marna said I could take a short break. I just needed to -" "Shhh! I'm focusing on taking down these NUMBERS," she said through gritted teeth. "The last tax audit revealed serious discrepancies and -" "No need to worry, sister," the old man interrupted again. "He who trusts in frivolous legal shenanigans is safe as a churchmouse. Now, if the good Lord has blessed you all with my family's famous donut recipe...?"