There is a look about a liar, though he is not unique in telling tales with just a glance. There is a hungriness colored by an expectation, a joy of moving to within the reach of dreams.
I know this look, have become quite expert at detecting what is said by flashes of a nova in the eyes, curling corners of a pouting lower lip. There is a canniness to such a one that tells them who is prey and who must be passed over. I am prey.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology