My family dedicated their lives to making cookies for charity. Really. Every dollar they had from their jobs was spent on ingredients; and everything was given back to the community. Every cent we had was for a good cause.

We travelled around a lot growing up, and I didn’t have many possessions or toys. My parents would spend their meagre income from whatever job they could find for the finest ingredients possible. And I mean the best of the best. Madagascan vanilla. Eggs from Japan. Chocolate that was about 80% cocoa.

They also had a secret ingredient they kept in a pink bottle that they always added to the recipe. They never told me what it was, but from the smell, I guessed it was almond essence, added to enhance the nuttiness of the cookies. Delicious smells always wafted through our shabby trailer, and it would make me drool.

Now, even though they let me help them make the cookies, I was never allowed to taste them. Whenever they caught me holding one, they would always slap it out of my hand. “All for those orphans,” they would say. “They never have anything good to eat. Think of them!”

It was reasonable, and as the years went by I tried to restrain myself. But as time went on it got more and more difficult. The smells of almond and chocolate and vanilla ran round and round the room, making my brain go nuts. The cookies sat in rows on the baking sheet, screaming to be eaten.

Finally, one day, I could take it no longer. I grabbed one of the cookies and ran to my room. Then I shoved it into my mouth.

It was every bit as delicious as I had imagined. The cookie melted into my mouth. It tasted strongly of almond, with a hint of vanilla and chocolate. Hmm, maybe we added too much of that secret ingredient in this batch. Although I swear we always added the same amount… Then my throat closed up, and my head started to throb. My vision blurred into a seamless mass of colours and faded shapes. I felt like I was on a ship at sea, and did not feel well at all.

“Mum, Dad,” I croaked as I staggered into the kitchen, “I don’t feel–”

The pink bottle was still on the kitchen countertop. The label was always facing away from me, but today someone forgot to turn it towards the wall. Two letters jumped out at me, inked in black. Two letters, before my vision faded out entirely and my muscles gave way to the weight of my body:

C Y…