On the night that he met Giant, Ross Norton hadn't been quite ready. There is no misprint in the first sentence. It is not meant to say ". . . the night that he met a giant" or even " . . . the giant," because Giant was not really a giant at all—at least, not in the literal sense of the word. Actually, he was fairly shorter than most others his age (which, he attested, was 317). Still, despite the fact that Giant arrived a bit early at Ross's house, the two were destined to meet, and that meeting, premature or not, was the start of something neither of them would ever be able to forget.

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Ross Norton twisted out of bed, set his bare feet on the cold floor, and went to his window. Something had made a noise there, and he was determined to discover what it was this time. For the past week or so, strange little scratches and poppings had come from somewhere directly outside his window in the night hours. When they first started, the noises were right after midnight. Ross had been frightened, wondering what sort of burglar would be attempting a break-in on a third-story flat. He had wanted to run to his uncle but had forced himself not to do so. That would have only made matters worse. The last thing he wanted was for his Uncle Wallace to think him a coward. So he had resigned himself to lying trembling in bed, praying that whatever was outside would go away. And, eventually, it had. When several more nights passed with the same sounds starting up at the same time of night, Ross had wondered if maybe the thing at his window was a bird or squirrel. This seemed far more likely than a burglar, and it was also a more pleasant thought, as it didn't scare him. However, when the boy had finally mustered enough courage to open the window and peer out of it, the noises had long since stopped. Whatever had been there was gone.

This night, Ross was ready. He had spent his day in class devising strategies to catch the scratching, popping culprit, and he had gulped down several cups of coffee (which was as horrible as taking cough syrup, he assured himself) in order to be well-caffeinated. His uncle hadn't known about the coffee, or he would have been rather upset. Mrs. Muddlegub, the housekeeper, had brewed the hot liquid for him, knowing full well that the young boy would not enjoy the drink but finding humor in his plea for it. And so Ross was ready. He was awake, and he was prepared. He held a flashlight firmly in one hand, his fingers wrapped around the handle more to keep himself from shaking with fear than to give him light. The stars were bright outside; they poured through the colored glass of Ross's window, showering the floor with moony reds, blues, and greens.

There was only one problem, and it was the fact that the scratches and poppings didn't start after midnight. Rather, they didn't come at all until Ross was in a light sleep, despite the caffeine he'd loaded himself with. It was only at dawn, when the first glimmers of sunlight that were showing on the far Eastern horizon had yet to touch the bluey blackness of the city, that the noises began again.

Scratches. Poppings. Scratchy poppings. Popping scratches.

Ross awoke at once. His ears were set to listen for out-of-the-ordinary sounds, and in his thin sleep he'd been able to hear them as clear as running water. His heart's pace quickened, and his hand grasped his flashlight tight. He dare not turn the thing on; whatever was outside might see the light and scamper or fly or lope off. Still, he knew he had to act fast. As quietly as he could, Ross slipped out of bed and moved toward his stained glass window. The moon was no longer shining through it. No swimming colors played across his bedroom floor. His feet were cold against it, and his whole body shivered from the chill air as well as the fright he felt. But he had to know—he had to.

Ross came to the window. Softly, he touched the fingers of his free hand to the handle on the lower panel, which could be pushed out and up. Though he was hesitant, he drew in a deep breath, flipped up the lock with his sweaty thumb, and swung the window outward. At once, his other hand switched on the flashlight and shone it into the dim dawn even before he stuck his head out into it. He swiveled the light to the right, where he saw nothing on the stone ledge that went under the third-floor windows and around the house. Then he turned it to the left, where it fell onto a strange figure.

In his shock, Ross nearly let the flashlight slip out of his hand. There, seated comfortably on the narrow ledge, swinging his dangling legs back and forth casually, was a boy. Not even appearing to be startled by the light now shining across his body, the boy continued to munch popcorn out of a red-and-white-striped paper bag he held. He kept his eyes steady on something in the distance. It was as if he didn't notice Ross at all.

"Er . . . excuse me," said Ross as loud as he had courage to speak. He felt that something must be said, and he wasn't exactly frightened anymore. The boy was probably his age. Whoever he was, he didn't look like a dangerous person, as Ross had been afraid he might find. In fact, the boy looked small and frail compared to the other boys Ross's age, the ones who were in his classes and who teased him for talking funny. In any case, finding anyone seated on his window ledge at all was abnormal, and Ross was curious as to how the boy had even gotten up so high. "Why are you sitting up here?"

Rather than respond, the boy on the ledge dug around in his popcorn bag, then looked to Ross and said, "Can I see your torch for a second? I can't find a buttery piece. Those are the only good ones—dark yellow with all the butter." At a loss of anything else to do or say, Ross passed the flashlight into the boy's outstretched hand. He watched in awe as the boy shone the thing down into his popcorn bag and scrounged into the bottom of it. "Can't bloody find any more," the stranger finally muttered to himself. A frown crossed his face, and then he tossed the bag out into the air and waved goodbye to it as it fluttered downward. When it had gone, the boy handed the light back to Ross and proceeded to lick the salt and grease off his fingers.

With a furrowed brow, Ross tried conversation again. "You shouldn't be so high up here. It's dangerous to be on window ledges. And this isn't your building, anyway. It's not your property."

"Property?" the boy repeated in wonder. He turned his full gaze on Ross, seeming to finally notice the half-revealed boy sticking out of the window next to him. "Oh, it's you. I thought you'd come out eventually. Only a matter of time, I told myself. Took you long enough, too, didn't it? Why, I've been coming here to this window every night for the past couple of weeks, just waiting for you to come say hello. What did you think I was . . . a bird or something?"

Ross was taken aback. "Well . . . yes, to be honest. A bird or squirrel or something." He found himself unwilling to admit that he'd also suspected a burglar, because that sounded a bit lame and cowardly at the moment. "How was I supposed to know anybody was out here? You didn't exactly come and knock at the window."

"Of course I didn't! If I had, you would've been straight to that uncle of yours, all afraid that I was some sort of bogey. I knew I had to just be patient. Now shine that torch out of my face so I can actually see around here."

Ross turned off the flashlight and put it down on the ledge. He stared as the boy rubbed his hands against his pants, then pulled his legs up against him. The boy had orange hair that fell straight around his ears and across his forehead. Some of it stuck up in places, likely where popcorn grease had been rubbed in while an itch was being scratched. His eyes drooped down at the ends, giving him a strange, half-sad sort of look, and whatever he was wearing, it certainly wasn't warm enough to fight off the chill and damp of the early-morning London air.

"Honestly," said Ross slowly. "Who are you?"

The stranger chewed his lower lip, looked out across the building rooftops all the way off toward Big Ben the clock tower, and nodded. "The name's Giant. Giant McGinty. Nice to meet you, Ross from the United States of America." He had turned and held out his hand to Ross, waiting for a hearty shake to conclude his introduction.

But Ross was not pleased; he was cautious. "Giant? I've never heard any name like that. It's not your real name. It's stupid. And how do you know who I am, or where I'm from?"

Sighing, Giant pulled back his hand crossly. "I can tell by how you talk. And your pajamas have your name sewn on the front pocket."

Ross glanced down to see that the boy was right: his name was sewn onto his pajama shirt pocket. He'd forgotten about that. "Still, that doesn't explain why you're sitting outside my window. You shouldn't be up here at all. Just go away, and don't come back. I haven't been able to sleep with all the noises you've been making. You're worse than a bird or a squirrel."

"All right then. Bloody all right. I wait all this time just so you can meet me and when you do, you don't appreciate my efforts. Fine by me." Giant sounded upset for a moment, but soon his mood shifted. In a wonderfully agile move, he swung himself into a standing position and held his arms out toward the rising sun. "Good morning, Magma Marble!" he cried in a loud voice. "I have tried to make friends, but he'll have none of it. I can't return yet, thanks to him, but I'll come say hello later today from a more worthy tower." The moon was still slightly visible in the quickly brightening sky, and it was the next thing Giant turned to. "Glowing Deep Sky Fish, please don't stay away long. Do not be angry with me. I hope to see you again this coming night." Then, much to Ross's astonishment, Giant began to do a ridiculously foolish thing. The boy began to perform little leaps and hops on the narrow ledge, skipping sideways, then back again, bowing downward, then up again.

"What are you doing?!" cried Ross in alarm, fearing for the stranger's safety. The second story was quite a ways up, and the last thing he wanted was to have to try to rescue someone from falling off the building. "Stop it! What in the world . . .?!" Leaning farther out the window, Ross stretched his arm out toward Giant, taking hold of his right ankle.

Giant stumbled, flailing his arms in the air. Fortunately, he regained his balance and fell back against the wall. He shook his ankle free of Ross's grip. "It's a fling, you idiot!" he cried with startled, widened eyes. "From the highlands! I do one every morning."

"It's the stupidest thing I ever saw. You were going to kill yourself! If you want to do dances, you should get down on the ground first. I just saved your life."

"You what?" Giant squinted his already-narrow eyes. "I don't know why I wasted my time at your window, Roscoe Norton. You're a barking crazy person, grabbing at me like that. I could've fallen and broken a finger or something!" With that, the small boy turned and walked down the ledge around the side of the house where Ross could no longer see him.

A strange mix of relief and disappointment crept into Ross. He wasn't sure what he'd expected from the boy, but whatever had happened, he didn't like the way it had turned out. "Would've broken a lot more than a finger," he mumbled angrily. "And call me crazy, will he? I wasn't the one talking about glowing marble fish and what not." Still, a hurt gnawed at his insides. Ross didn't know what to think about anything that had just happened. He was, however, slightly alarmed when he looked back at the pocket on his shirt and re-read his name. It only says Ross, he thought to himself. How did he know my full name?

Resigning himself to the small hope that Giant would be back the next night, Ross retreated into his bedroom, closed and locked the stained-glass window, and decided to get ready for school.