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“Make eye contact with the turkey. Do you have it?” Alex follows Henry’s instructions in his ear, planting his feet and bending his knees so he’s at Cornbread’s eye level, a chill running down his spine when his own eyes lock on the beady, black little murder eyes. “Yeah.” “Right, now hold it,” Henry says. “Connect with the turkey, earn the turkey’s trust . . . befriend the turkey . . .” “Okay . . .” “Buy a summer home in Majorca with the turkey . . .” “Oh, I fucking hate you!”
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