England.
East London.
At the rundown, fishy-smelling Westport Street Intersection, a seven- or eight-year-old boy hurried to the Feixing Candy Store, glanced at the "merely" two-hundred-person queue, and quickly positioned himself at the end of the line.
He had visited every candy store in the East District, and this one had the fewest people.
The queue moved forward slowly, and the boy occasionally stuck out his dirty little head, gazing hopefully towards the shop.
He could faintly see a few jars left on the dark brown "subsidy" shelf, and a smile of joy appeared on his face.
Finally, after waiting for an hour and a half, the boy reached the front of the shop.
He wiped his nose, tightened the oversized coat clearly altered from adult clothes, and handed the small wooden box in his hand to the shopkeeper:
"Mr. Miller, I'd like to buy 6 ounces of raw sugar."
"You're in luck, little Andy," the plump shopkeeper tilted the last earthen jar, "There's exactly 5 ounces left."
