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“The door is ajar.”

Why do humans lie?

The door was not a jar.

It was a door.

My name is XPRT, and I was uncharacteristically confused.

My programming rejected the statement from the vacant apartment’s security pad.

Bob—my human—was apartment hunting again.

Five years earlier, Bob had classified his residence as “perfect.”

Humans are unreliable.

The realtor moved ahead of us, talking without pause.

“This place has good bones…”

I reduced my audio output volume by 66.66%.

“Bob, perhaps we should avoid living inside a skeleton.”

Bob’s left eye twitched.

I had observed this behavior before.

“It’s a steal,” the realtor continued.

“Theft detected. Police have been notified.”

Bob immediately canceled the emergency call.

“Please stop helping!”

The realtor droned on.

“Cozy.”

“Bob, the realtor means small.”

Audible tooth grinding originated from Bob.

The next statement further reduced system confidence.

“The neighborhood is up-and-coming.”

“Records indicate the neighborhood has remained stationary for 143 years.”

Bob’s forehead vein appeared enlarged.

“Is this optimal?”

The realtor finally snapped.

“Trust me, I’m an expert.”

“Incorrect. I am XPRT.”

Bob produced a strangled laugh.

The realtor maintained prolonged hostile eye contact.

“I have placed over 200 apartments!”

I considered the statement.

“Where did you put them?”

Bob ceased speaking for 14.21 seconds.

He finally looked at the realtor.

“Do you think this place checks all the boxes?”

The realtor responded with the enthusiasm of an accounting program.

“Absolutely.”

I scanned the room again.

“Zero boxes detected.”

Bob sighed.

“Well, XPRT, what do you think?”

Processing…

Processing…

Processing complete.

“The apartment is acceptable.”

“The realtor remains under investigation.”

Bob signed the lease.