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“No. Turn it.” She demonstrated. I turned the spoon. “Scoop it out.” The spoon scraped the hard sides. Fingers slipping with the stickiness of it all. “Turn your wrist, like this. See?” It was harder than I thought it would be. “Like ice-cream.” “What d’you mean like ice-cream?” I dug deeper. “Like scooping ice-cream.” Something finally gave and it slid free. “Tastes nothing like ice-cream,” I said, popping the eyeball into my mouth.