Cardamom, by Dorcas Wilson

‘Drink it,’ the interrogator leant forward; her face inches from his.
‘I can’t. I’ll die if I drink it.’
​
‘You won’t die because we don’t want you dead. Drink it.’
‘I can’t it will kill me’

‘Why would it kill you? You haven’t given us what we want yet. Drink it.’

He shook his head, ‘I can’t drink it.’

‘For the last time it won’t kill you,’ she looked like she wanted to. ‘Are you going to drink it? Or do I need to force you?’

‘I can’t. I can smell the Cardamom. I’m allergic. I drink that I die.’