Frowning, Dick takes two halting steps forward, like someone prodded into movement by the point of a gun. He stops in front of the machine, gazing steadily at the metal bars and the rubbery tongue stretched between them. He can't find the connection between the apparatus and self-improvement--a slippery concept to begin with. Who else would improve him?

He leans forward and touches the tip of one finger--quickly, as if expecting it to burn--to the metal.

"Am I supposed to..." he asks, or starts to ask, the question fizzling out. He remembers to bring the tablet to his face this time.