There’s some kind of small metallic disk at the base of the cupcake. A metal plate stamped with a number. Bingo. I rip open the rest of the cupcakes and find more, all stuffed into the bases. Sweat beads on my brow. I don’t know what I’m looking at, not yet. I just know these cupcakes were never meant to be eaten. The small discs sit in my palm, sticky and menacing as tiny knives.