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.”
