I.

Frank Hadley has worked at the same medical lab in Ohio for fifteen years. He wakes at seven, drinks instant coffee from a chipped mug, drives his beat-up Ford pickup to the lab, processes blood samples, operates the centrifuge, records data. He goes home. He watches baseball. He drinks cheap beer. He sleeps. He does it again the next day.

Life is a straight line. No peaks, no valleys. Just the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic thump of the centrifuge.

Then one Tuesday, he processes a new batch of blood samples and notices a number: TH-07. Hadley. His last name. The sample belongs to a Gregory Voth—his boss. Frank shrugs it off. Coincidence. He's seen plenty of people with the same last name. The world is full of them.

But the number TH-07 stays in his head like a song he can't stop humming.

II.

After work, Frank searches the internet for "TH-07 Voth." He finds nothing. Of course he finds nothing. It's probably just an internal lab code.

But the next morning at work, he notices Mark looking at him. Not deliberately—just their eyes meet for a second across the workbench. But that second makes Frank uncomfortable.

He starts noticing small things. Voth's blood type is A positive—same as Frank's. Voth's birthday is March 15—one day off from Frank's. Voth never eats lunch in the lab, but Frank notices his trash can contains the same brand of beer cans he drinks at home.

Frank starts to wonder. Not wildly. Not obsessively. Just occasionally, the way a man wonders if it's going to rain while he continues to do whatever he was doing.

III.

One night, Frank realizes he forgot his phone. He returns to the lab. The door is unlocked. He pushes it open and sees Voth's office light still on. Through the crack in the door, Frank sees Voth sitting at his desk, a thick notebook open in front of him.

Frank sees his name. Not "Technician Hadley." Frank Hadley—Batch Seven.

He stands in the doorway for maybe ten seconds. Then he turns and leaves. He doesn't take the notebook. He doesn't look at more. He gets in his truck, sits there, and smokes a cigarette.

The next day, he goes to work as usual. Processes samples. Records data. Goes home.

But he starts looking at himself in the mirror occasionally. If he's Batch Seven, where are Batches One through Six? Then he laughs at himself. This is ridiculous. He's Frank Hadley, forty-two years old, divorced, drives a beat-up truck. He's not a "batch."

IV.

Frank continues his life. Work. Home. Television. Sleep. He thinks about the notebook sometimes. But most of the time, he thinks about the weekend baseball game and the discounted beer at the supermarket.

One day, his daughter calls. She says she might be having a baby. Frank says "Oh." Then he hangs up.

He stands at the window and looks at the grey Ohio sky. He thinks: if I'm manufactured, is my daughter too? If she's manufactured, is her child? Then he shakes his head. He's going to buy beer. Life goes on.

The rain starts. He doesn't have an umbrella. He walks to his truck anyway.