We could, you know, go out for hot dogs. Don’t worry—they’re not actually dogs. It’s just a name. They’re these meat things that you put on buns—that’s a kind of bread—and then you top them with other things and—” “I know what a hot dog is,” interrupted Mark. “You do?” I asked, legitimately surprised. “How?” “We’re not that remote. We have TV and movies. Besides, I’ve left Siberia, you know. I’ve been to the U.S.” “Really? Did you try a hot dog?” “No,” he said. “I was offered one … but it didn’t look that appetizing.” “What!” I exclaimed. “Blasphemy. They’re delicious.” “Aren’t they compressed animal parts?” he pushed. “Well, yeah… I think so. But so is sausage.” Mark shook his head. “I don’t know. Something’s just not right about a hot dog.” “Not right? I think you mean .
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