She stopped the car. She could smell the sweet fragrance before she opened the bonnet. She knew that they would be there, and that there would be 81 of them.

It was the sign. The first day she’d seen it, she’d barely noticed it, and there had only been one. The attendent at the Engen Onestop had pulled it out, impossibly petite and feminine in his black, greasy hand. He looked as though he was extracting a snake. He hadn’t wanted it either; pity, really, that it went to waste.

The next day, she noticed the sign, and she thought she heard something from the engine, so she checked. And there were 3, sitting there prettily with pink icing and hundreds and thousands, like an enigma from baker’s heaven. The next day 9. Today 27. She’d have to start giving them out, pretending it was someone’s birthday or something. Though by her calculations, by Monday she’d need a new route to work.