My human son, aka the broken lawn chair, demonstrates his creative posture as a fuzzy brown tabby sprawls across his blanket-covered legs. My son is a skinny young man in a Phoenix Wright t-shirt. The afternoon sun glows off the orange checkerboard blanket, reflecting color onto the eyes of the handsome, tick-striped cat. The human has propped himself up on giant Squishmallows on a bed with no sheets, looking like the autistic guy he is.