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S O S
It's dinnertime and there's a submarine in Emilia's soup—she can spy its petite periscope peeking out beside a crouton. She dips it out with a spoon and watches the speck-sized crew crawl out of the hatch one-by-one, crying abandon ship! as she sways it around, some waving white flags no bigger than insect eyes. They dive headlong back into the soup with needle-prick kerplunks, cling to oregano life-rafts or take refuge on Cannellini bean islands.
It won’t be long until the macaroni sharks show up.
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