“Thanks, Grace,” I say as she starts cleaning my cut. “I do have a question for you.” “Yeah?” she asks as she picks up some gauze. “What is it?” “Do you happen to know who is eating my bologna?” She pauses and lifts away from me to look me in the eyes. “That’s your question?” “Yes,” I groan. “Someone is eating it, and I didn’t get to have my pre-game sandwich today and I think it made me sluggish. I rely on that sandwich.” “Bologna is terrible for you. How many times have we gone over this?” “Bologna is my savior. Wait . . .” I look at her. “Is it you? Are you taking my bologna away because
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