A Brazilian Sugar Mill
by Dominic Carew

I  SIT at my desk at the investment bank on the seventeenth floor, which may as well be the moon for all the contact we have with the real world here, while below, on the street, a din surges. “Cookies? Does anyone want cookies? We’re going to buy cookies.” I order two white chocolate and macadamia cookies. One for now, one for tonight after dinner.
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