Credit: Justin Randall

Sally pointed at the heap of items in Bob's study as if it were self-explanatory proof of his guilt.

"It's just not normal," she said. "Smile all you want, it's not."

Bob twitched and corrected the smile that had become his customary expression during the last couple of weeks. He tried to share Sally's anger at the mess of his study, and deep inside he did share it, but his frustration could hardly stir under layers of blissful resignation.

"Stop smiling!" Sally said crossly. "What are you, some Buddha parody?"

Bob's study was drowned in remnants of his latest hobbies. His infatuations with new pastimes were brief, and growing briefer. For a couple of weeks he had painted, pursued astronomy for a week or so, indulged in clay sculpting for some days, and oscillated between writing, cooking, board games, and web design.

Bob picked up a brush and peeled the hard paint off the bristles. "I can't help it," he said. "I'm not doing it deliberately. I--" He looked at the stacks of CDs on the table, his neglected running gear on the floor, the sculptures crumbling in the sunlight. "It's almost as if I know how things will end the moment I start them," he whispered. "So why should I take all the steps in between?"

Sally took his hand and stroked his cheek. "You're pale, honey." She bit her lips. "You need the doctor."

"I'm all right," Bob said. Did he believe that? "I'm happy because everything is perfect. Complete."

Sally let go of his hand. She dug in her pouch. The sequins shimmered as her fist bulged inside the fabric. Finally, she retrieved the done box.

"This thing damaged you," she said angrily. "You hear? I won't touch it any more. Never."

Dr. Morgan folded his hands and twirled his thumbs around each other. He kept nodding as Sally spat out her perception of Bob's behaviour.

"It's as if he doesn’t care. He doesn’t finish anything. Oh, sure, he doesn't count or wash his hands until they bleed, either. I suppose you'd call that amazing progress. But you know what I'd call it? Delayed lobotomy."

Dr. Morgan raised his eyebrows.

Bob looked at the sculpture--the rearing horse--and again he contemplated touching it. He didn't, because he knew exactly what it would feel like, the tingle of metal on his palms, the heaviness. He felt as if he'd already touched the sculpture. He was done fingering it.

"Bob?" Dr. Morgan called. "Are you with us?"

"Yes."

Dr. Morgan began to draw a network on the whiteboard, connecting a flock of nodes with brisk lines. "Here is what I think happened. Overgeneralisation. A common phenomenon in simulations of neural learning. See, you told me that you used the done box rather often?"

Sally started.

"Please, I'm not criticising you," Dr Morgan said. "Just stating the facts. Now, the primary target of the done signal is the compulsive action. However, the brain being the dense network of neurons it is," and he tapped his pointer against the drawing, "feedback beyond the immediate context is inevitable. Residual done signals might travel backwards to previous actions.

"Example: You say done when you wash your hands, and the immediate effect is that you stop washing your hands. But a little bit of done-ness travels to the act of entering the bathroom, of opening the door, of whatever you did before. You grow more apt to feel you're done in general. Still with me?"

"Like domino stones falling backwards," Bob said. His heart hammered in his chest. He felt sick.

"Exactly! Now, considering how often you used the done box, I'm not surprised at all that you feel a certain over-contentment, Bob. On the contrary. It shows your new homunculus is learning fast. Eager little fellow."

"Bob?" Sally called.