“Don’t you dare say it,” Wilder says, shaking his head. “Don’t you fucking dare.” I run my tongue over my teeth and very slowly and deliberately say, “Bologna.” His nostrils flare. His chest heaves. And in a very maniacal voice, his eyes boring holes into me, he says, “You son of a bitch.” “I think we should all take a moment to remember the breathing exercises we learned a few seconds ago,” Sanders says. But Wilder holds his hand out to him. “You stay out of this.” Then he gets close to me and whispers, “Say it again. I dare you.” Wetting my lips, I lean even closer and whisper, “Bologna.”
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