We found it in a pitiable state. It had probably been trying to fly, crashed down, and injured itself. Of course, we picked it up and took it home. The children were really excited at the discovery, and while we tried to prevent them from poking at it too much, they couldn’t be stopped from hanging around it and making increasingly wild suggestions as to where it could have come from.

We had never seen its like and felt unequal to addressing its injuries in an appropriate fashion. As an educated guess, we felt it might want some water, so we tried pouring a little down what we thought to be its mouth. It was making some small noises and shivering in a way that appeared unhealthy. Placing it in a sleeping area with its heated surfaces seemed to pacify it a little.

The children kept reaching out to it curiously with their knowledge-absorbing arms. Sometimes, they’d exclaim things like, “It’s warm inside!” or, “It makes carbon dioxide!” We encouraged them and wondered what else they were receiving, but of course, having long shed our own childhood learning arms, could only rely on observation, extrapolation, and plain old guessing to gather anything about it.

It was a somewhat elongated shape, pronged on one end and rounded on the other. The round end was where we found the opening for water, and it was also the one making the noises, we thought. It had several protrusions and cavities whose function we did not, at present, understand. Some of these released liquid in a #880808 color, but eventually stopped, so we decided that may be either a sign of injury or a type of waste elimination.

Pressing delicately on its middle, we discovered that it was soft there, without any kind of shell or hard covering—and also that it did not enjoy being pressed in its middle. It made itself clear by emitting louder, less pleasant noises. Inside, it had a sort of firm structure, which after some prodding we decided was more or less intact, since it did not make such unhappy noises when we tested it. After some time on the heated surface, its movements went from spasms and shivers to voluntary changes of position.

The skin on it appeared removable. Its hue was approximately #848482 with patches of other colors here and there, which perhaps had some cultural significance since there seemed to be some symbols or images on them. This casing wrapped around most of it, but not the round noisy end, which was smooth except for the top, on which grew some thin, soft fibers. Later, it became comfortable enough to remove the casing, and we saw that such was its surface all over.

Quite fortunate, we all agreed, that the air was good for it to breathe. We had found others before who had clearly not been so well-suited. Those ones had not lasted, and it was all very distressing for the children. We wondered if it had known it was coming to a place like ours, or if some error in judgment had brought it our way. Sentience and free will seemed likely, as it had obviously traveled to us from afar, and since it had no visible implements for navigating such distances, we assumed it had a mechanism whose crash had thrown it powerfully to the side. Later, someone went to explore the area where we’d found it, and discovered the debris and what remained of the machine.

As there was no manner in which we could interrogate it, we took to placing a variety of things next to it and watching what it did. Some it ignored, probably deeming them unsuitable or not knowing what to do with them. Others, eventually, it began trying to consume. We brought more of those. It liked water, too, so we kept that available. Not only did it put the water inside, but it also enjoyed removing its casing and rubbing the water on itself. The children claimed they had learned that its surface was porous, which was not readily visible, but we supposed that was another way for it to take in the water.

The young ones were also very curious about its elimination, but it wouldn’t do that in front of them, exiting the dwelling and hiding. Naturally, they followed it and tried absorbing its waste in the normal manner, but it made loud noises and motions and scared them away. We explained that it was not like us, and that maybe it wanted to keep its waste and make something out of it later, or perhaps there was cultural significance to it, but the children, of course, were too small and had undeveloped empathy bubbles, so their feelings were hurt. 

After a while, as it felt better, it began trying to interact with us. One day when we came to see how it was doing, it strained its entire body and produced a screechy, horrible sound which, after some deliberation and much use of our empathy bubbles, we chose to interpret not as a death threat but as an attempt to say “waaaaterrrrrrr”. To test this theory, we brought some water, and it grabbed and consumed it right away. Then, it made more sounds which we couldn’t understand, try as we might. For all we could tell, it looked discouraged by our stupidity.

The next day, it howled “waaaaterrrrrr” at us again when we gave it some, then pointed at the fruit we had brought it and repeated the same word. We wobbled no at first, then realized it wouldn’t understand the gesture, and said aloud “fruit”, repeating it several times, then pointing at the water to say “water” so it would understand the difference. “Vrooooooot?” it creaked, uncertain. The children became excited, chirping, “Fruit! Fruit! Fruit!” and dancing boisterously around it. It cowered. “Stop, it thinks you are about to consume it!” we realized.

Several days passed, and it learned to say more words. “Bed”, “protein”, “sky”, “star”—all these it appeared to understand correctly. It also wanted to share its own language with us, so it began saying the names of things too, but it was hard for us to repeat them. It also tried to teach us its name, which sounded like “yoooooommmm”. The children, aided by their learning arms, were able to repeat it and get close enough to the original. We less flexible adults did our best, not wanting to offend it. “Yoom,” we tried, “Yoom, water! Yoom, want some fruit?”

We felt Yoom’s adaptation was going very well. It was moving freely in and around the dwelling, exploring the surrounding nature, learning to speak, and spending much of its time with the children. It was now allowing them to touch it more easily, and we felt they were having an excellent learning moment. Certainly, they would grow up more empathetic and intelligent for having had this interaction with something so different than themselves.

However, as it turned out, Yoom was not very happy. One day, it disappeared. We were worried, since we hadn’t yet taught it how to behave in the forest, how to escape the more dangerous plants, and what to do if caught outside during radiation hours. In fact, it could be resistant to radiation, but we didn’t wish to take the risk. A search party was organized. We went through the forest, plant-repelling gear on our strongest arms, waving the weaker ones in the air and shouting “Yoom! Yoom! Where are you, Yoom!” at the tops of our voices.

It was nowhere to be found. We returned late, when the radiation hours were about to begin and we could no longer risk staying out. The children awaited us back home, distraught. “Did you find it? Where is it?” they asked. “We don’t have it, do we?” we scolded gently. They shouldn’t forget their lessons in common logic, even when anxious. “We shall look again tomorrow,” we promised, as they wobbled and cried out sadly.

The next day, as promised, we set out again, now equipped with sound enhancers and light emitters in addition to our anti-plant weapons. We went farther and called louder, and looked into caves and dark corners in the forest. Yoom might as well have evaporated. But if it wasn’t in the forest, where could it be? We deliberated for a while. Could it have been consumed whole by a plant? Or perhaps it had healed enough to fly? We didn’t know whether it could do that.

An idea struck. Perhaps it had gone in search of its broken machine? It didn’t know how badly it was smashed, since we had brought it home in a state of shock. Would it be able to find its way there? We had assumed it could only travel shorter distances, which was why we’d only been looking in the forest. Concerned and worried, we hastened towards the crash site. The plants snapped at us, but we paid no attention. The crash site was out in the open, and if Yoom had found it, it could be in danger.

When we came close, we saw it was true. Yoom had made its way to its machine and was now leaning its body against the biggest piece. Its skin color now resembled the color of its casing, and it had smeared dust and mud all over itself, whether as part of a cultural behavior or accidentally, we couldn’t tell.

“Yoom. What what?” we asked. Normally, we tried to use a simplified sort of baby talk with it, since it hadn’t progressed much beyond the names of things in our language.

“I not dwelling,” it said. “I not dwelling.”

We were taken aback. If it wanted the dwelling, why had it left? Had it gone to visit its machine and lost its way?

“Dwelling there,” we pointed. “Yoom go dwelling? We take Yoom dwelling?”

“Not! Not!” it said, getting more animated. “I not I dwelling! I dwelling! I! I!”

Our empathy bubbles swelled with pain. It wanted to go home. We couldn’t help it. We had no machines that could suit it. We had no idea how far its home was. We didn’t even know if there were any of its kind left back there. We just could not help. Exchanging helpless wobbles, we stood around Yoom and watched as its cries of “dwelling, I dwelling” in a mixture of its own language and ours grew convulsive and gradually subsided back into similar spasms as when we’d first found it. Water expelled from it until it coated its bare front part, mixing in with the dust.

“Yoom,” we said hesitantly, “fruit? Bed?”

It just sat there, shaking. Strange creature or not, it was obvious that Yoom was bubble-burstingly sad. 

After that day, Yoom seemed to realize it would not return home, and its behavior changed. It invested even more effort into learning our language and ways. The children explained the world to it in simpler terms, and their knowledge absorption helped them interpret it back to us when it struggled to convey its meaning.

Soon enough, Yoom was speaking on the level of someone who still had all their baby arms. It understood the basic wobble gestures and sometimes, hilariously, tried to imitate them with its small, long body. We never made fun, of course. Like any baby making its first steps through the world it will inhabit for the rest of its days, Yoom needed gentle encouragement.

We were surprised when one day, it woke up, rubbed on some water, then wrapped itself in its casing and asked, “I what do?”

“What do?” we repeated, confused.

“What do in dwelling? I consume you protein. I use you bed. You do, you give I. I not do, not give you. Want give.”

Touched, we considered. Yoom had only two arms and was still quite unaware of its surroundings, by our standards. We couldn’t charge it with gathering fruit, since it might accidentally encounter the wrong plants. Making protein was complicated, and the dwelling needed no repairs. Finally, we had a realization.

“You give much. You are with the children. They learn. You are not like us. This is good for them. Yoom is good for the children.”

Even in this simplified way, it took a few moments to explain, and when it sank in, Yoom made a sharp noise we hadn’t heard before. It was similar to the sound it made sometimes when it poured water inside itself too quickly, but had also an eerie resemblance to its behavior on the day we had found it by the machine.

“I thing for learn. Children learn I. Why? Yoom one. Children not see many Yoom. Children not need know Yoom. After not many days, no Yoom.”

By this time, we had learned that Yoom was the general name of its kind, not the individual way other Yooms referred to it, but the moniker had already stuck. Still, it was clearly making the point that our children were unlikely ever to encounter others like it. We didn’t feel like telling it that others may crash near our home just as it had, since this would probably make it need lots of empathy again. 

Instead, we chose to reply, “Children need to know many things. Things there are many of and things there is one of. Children are learning all things. And, we want Yoom to be for many days. Yoom must not say this thing.”

Yoom made the sharp noise again but said nothing besides. We continued on with our day, knowing that it was sad and not knowing how to help. This, it seemed, would be the way things would stand until the end, but from that day on, we tried giving it small tasks around the dwelling and brought it along for fruit gathering, so that it could learn the differences between the plants. It seemed to appreciate these opportunities and to prefer being busy to sitting quietly.

We had Yoom for quite a short time, all things considered. Turns out, it was right. Yooms don’t live for many days. At least not in a foreign environment. When it went on the decline, the children, almost grown by then, were the first to notice. They told us Yoom was moving slowly and taking a longer time waking up in the mornings. Once they said that, we saw it too.

Yoom’s casing had long disintegrated, and it was living uncovered, like us. Its formerly smooth surface became wrinkled; its fibers changed color. It stooped more, moved less, and consumed less fruit and protein. It was sad, but it was always sad. We didn’t dare mention any of it, simply taking care to give it less work and provide more nutritious things for it to consume.

Ultimately, we asked it too little. Unable to help it return, we didn’t want to ask much about its home, so as not to make it sadder. Still, we did glean some information which made us marvel. From what it had been able to share, the place it came from was quite far away and quite different, and it was frankly astonishing that it had managed to cross that distance in the first place.

When one morning, Yoom did not wake up, we understood it was done living with us. Since we didn’t know what Yooms did after they were done living, we carried it out to the overgrown remains of its machine and placed it inside. It seemed appropriate for it to rest in the thing that had reminded it of home.

All this happened a long time ago, and we have seen no Yooms since. The resting place of our Yoom and its machine has become a plant-covered hillock, and only we know what hides underground there. Our children are adults with no learning arms and their own babies now, and they tell the story of the Yoom they grew up with. To the little ones, it is not much different than the stories of how the forest came to be, or of the angry star that sends us radiation. But as we told Yoom, we believe that children need to know everything, so we shall keep telling his story.