DR MOSS
Fig has feelings about the news. Moss has a couch and a doctorate.
Therapy, in the Dr Katz tradition. Fig arrives mid-sentence about whatever the AI world did this week and lies down about it. Moss listens from a wingback chair he needs a booster cushion to use, consults a notepad that only ever holds a drawing of a pond, and practices a school of therapy derived entirely from being a tardigrade. Sessions are fifty minutes compressed into three and a half. The clock on the wall works. He calls time mid-breakthrough, every time.
