Even though he was escaping the smog-laden outside air, Lyle's apartment smelled too-lived in, filled with the odor of ancient take-out, unwashed clothing, and dead house plants. "I should clean this place up," he said. He thought about hanging up his damp windbreaker, but shrugged it off to toss it over a chair. He dumped his bag on the dining nook table as he edged his way past. When he thumbed the frame, the metallic square lit with the evening news logo, four stories ribboned and scrolling across it. All showed scrambles of military activity, puffs of bomb smoke, a scattered flash of gun fire, muted and surreal, before they combined into a single burger commercial. From behind him, the device on the table said, "You seem to use the word 'should' a lot. Do you attribute a particular meaning to that word?" Lyle scrounged through the refrigerator, pulling out a plastic meal bag to throw in the microwave. Coming back to the coffee table, he said, "I suppose I say 'should' when I really mean 'don't want to do.'" The Therapy Buddha sat cross-legged, three feet tall and made of soft plastic.
