The young ones grow up doing this, so the New ones have no trouble reading their faces. But us old ones, we don’t have the skills, the subtlety, the control of our facial muscles to completely make our requests. So the youngs get the best of the available food, they get the best jobs, rolling the barrels of cheese down to the waiting ships. Us olds, we get leftovers to eat, and we have to spend long hours cutting the curds and draining the whey, the most boring part of the job. Sometimes I wonder what the News do with all that cheese, but even the youngs don’t know how to ask that question.

I watch the youngs, ask them for help. Maybe I can model their expressions. That big “Oooo!” means “yes,” some of the time. But often the youngs waggle their eye-brows when they do it, or rock their heads side-to-side. When I do that, the news hit me with one of their long arms, flailing about, or they grab my shirt with their short arms and shake me violently. It’s scary, and I have no idea how to say “Put me down,” although I think the youngs do.