Her favorite had always been the Baptist churches, because of the music. She loved how the entire congregation would stand and join in the singing, hands clapping, heads swinging and eyes half-closed, as though the music was the main event of the day.

“If God doesn’t hear that,” she’d say, “then He just doesn’t have ears.”

Jeremiah never liked these Baptist visits. It seemed too disorderly to him, with everyone in the place erupting in an “Amen” or a “Hallelujah” at totally unpredictable moments. How were you supposed to follow that? How did anyone know what to do? At least in the Catholic church he could fake it, following the lead of the people around him to know when to kneel, when to stand and when to sit down again. He never knew where he should be with the Baptists.

It came as no great surprise that the clone had opted for a Catholic church funeral, but in the lab, in front of the monitor, Jeremiah found himself silently wishing for a full Baptist choir to sing her off, and everybody clapping and letting loose with an “Amen!” She would have liked that, he thought. But he knew the clone wouldn’t have entertained the idea for a moment, and neither would he have done at that point. It wouldn’t have seemed proper. He would have insisted on a certain decorum. He would have used words like dignity and reverence. Funny how he could picture himself throwing all that out the window right now. If it had been up to him, right this minute, he wouldn’t have cared what anybody thought, and everyone in that place would have been stuck shouting “Hallelujah” at the rafters, right up to God’s ears.

Brent, uncharacteristically respectful, sat beside him while he watched, dressed in a suit and tie, his lab coat in the closet and his laptop nowhere to be seen. They were silent as they watched a small procession of people enter the church. The clone, flanked by Diana and Parker, stood at the entrance and endured handshakes and tentative hugs. Both Brent and Jeremiah noted, but didn’t mention, the sparse turnout. All but the front few pews in the church were empty. They listened to a priest who had never met his mother talk about what it meant to live life well.

“Life is a gift,” he said. “As miraculous as it is brief. And we must use that gift to its fullest advantage, use our flicker of existence to make the world somehow better than it would have been without us. How do we do that? Is it through grandiose gestures of charity and service? Or rather the small acts of kindness we commit when we think no one is watching? Will we be remembered for the pomp and circumstance of our lives, those fleeting moments of greatness? Or rather for all the quiet moments when we are fully and truly present in the world and with those around us? Patricia Adams lived a quiet life. She was a mother, a sister, a friend. She did nothing that the whole world will remember her for. She will never be immortalized in poetry or song; no flags will fall to half-mast for her passing. The annals of history will not devote even a footnote to her life. But to those who knew her, Patricia made the world a better place, and she will be remembered. She will be missed. She lived fully, honestly, with a purpose and with passion. She lived not to impress, but she left an impression. She followed not the rules and obligations of the world, but the rules and obligations of her heart. She lived well.”