The bell above the door jangles as the customer steps inside, the scent of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon wafting out to greet them. *We were expecting you*, whispers the voice in her mind. Step by wavering step, the woman makes her way to the counter, propping herself against it with white-knuckled hands. *They all looked the same to me,* she stumbles over her words. *The faces blurred until I could no longer see the difference. I only had my wife once; why did I have to lose my son?* The baker pushes a tray of scones through the counter into the woman's shaking hands. *Here, they asked us to make a brown Betty for the wake. One of the guests said they don't eat pie, so this should do the trick.* A tremor goes through the woman as she takes the tray from the other woman's hands, nodding her thanks. *I took my first bite of pie in years. Didn't realize how much I missed it.* She's in tears. *They wouldn't let me bring anything to the wake for my son. My wife asked, but they said it wasn't the done thing.* *Two visits in a week. It almost feels like we have to manufacture people out of spares to fill the quota.*