Paper or plastic?

"The chairs by the pharmacy counter are hard bioplastic and contoured - supposedly - to the human body. They're not the right shape for Harold or for anyone else who might actually need to sit on them. Too high off the ground, sized for people who haven't yet begun to shrink, and too straight-backed, unkind to vertebrae that curl you inwards like last year's leaves."

"Amazingly, the pharmacist beckons. "Mr Vetch?" He holds out a paper bag. "I have your prescription." Harold levers himself up. "Finally." The first day of the month is special. That's when he gets Rosie back. She's only formulated for a 30-day supply, which means he's alone for the last day of each month (except for April/June/September/November - and February, which gets weird)."

""What's this?" He doesn't swear - they can throw you out for that. He pulls out a bottle with a single pill inside. "Where's my wife?" "This is the current approved grief mitigation formulation per your insurance." The pharmacist's sigh could blow an immovable object straight to Mars. "It's no different from the usual monthly construct." Harold shakes the bottle. Inside is a big pill, squishy and pale, but it's not a person."

Harold waits at a crowded pharmacy counter on the first day of the month for his prescribed grief mitigation, nicknamed Rosie. The chairs are uncomfortable and ill-suited to elderly bodies. The queue becomes urgent as other customers plead for medication. The pharmacist hands Harold a paper bag containing a single squishy pill rather than a reconstructed companion. The pill is described as the current approved grief mitigation formulation under his insurance and matches the usual monthly construct. The formulation provides a 30-day supply, leaving Harold alone at the end of each month. Financial and regulatory pressures prevent him from protesting.

Read at Nature