Dave Ming Chang, newly arrived in New York City, may be the ultimate fish out of water. He’s forty-something, pleasant looking and nattily dressed, even if his attire--an all-white suit, black tie and a neat black handkerchief tucked in his pocket--harkens back to the disco-centric ‘70s. But beyond his odd apparel, there’s something not quite right about Dave. Even the way he walks is odd; as he makes his way through the streets of New York, one of his legs shoots out way too far with each step, like he’s not comfortable in his own body. And for good reason: inside “Dave” is a crew of well-trained miniature people--a world within a world--that feverishly attempts to direct Dave’s every action and conversation. In each section of Dave's “body,” a skilled crewperson (average height: one and three-quarters inches), sporting an insignia depicting a specific part of Dave’s anatomy, mans a high tech console controlling Dave’s movements. But Dave’s crew, under the direction of the Captain from whom Dave takes his appearance, is experiencing a steep learning curve. When Dave attempts his first-ever sip of water, a tremendous wave of water rushes down, drenching everyone inside. When Dave tries on some clothing, a shirt becomes a cotton beast bent on smothering him. When he goes in for a simple medical exam, the metallic Dave must battle formidable magnetic forces from an MRI. And a banquet of processed meat tubes he learns are called “hot dogs,” leads to an explosive situation inside a men’s room. As Dave--that is, those inside Dave--slowly navigates his way through these physical challenges, they begin to experience something with even more profound effects. A glimmer of emotion sweeps over the crew, which hails from a place that discourages emotion and individuality. Dave is changing--from the inside-out, and from the outside-in.