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Drink it raw

I showed up at the farm in the dark of night. This was not a necessary element to procuring my illicit elixir, but it somehow seemed apropos. A lone light and the moon illuminated the gravel drive between my car and the barn in rural Alamance County. A black cat scurried across my path, and I mused at the irony.

Just as promised, I found the milk in the fridge. "Nelson" was printed neatly on the glass with indelible ink on an otherwise unlabeled jar. No one was around except for a dog, who surveyed my intentions and went back to guarding the cows. I left the money on the counter and departed with my contraband.

This was actually the least secretive element in my quest to find raw milk. Getting here had required everything short of a secret handshake.

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