Noggin pressed his ear to the dirt and drummed, because somewhere under Plant Island a stone giant slept, and his drum was supposed to wake it. He hit the skin three times, fast then slow, the way the old song went. He waited. Nothing answered but worms. He had drummed on this spot all morning, and all morning the ground stayed dead. The trouble was simple and awful. Noggin knew the rhythm. He did not know where the giant lay. The island was wide, full of roots and hills, and his sound only sank a little way into the soil. Drum on empty dirt and you wake empty dirt. He slapped the drum hard and bit back tears. A small bird landed on his drum rim. Its feathers were bright, red and blue and gold, and it tilted its head like it was listening. Noggin went still. The bird hopped off, flew low, then stopped and looked back. It wanted him to follow. He followed. The bird led him under a huge tree with a crown of leaves so thick it blocked the sun. The bird dropped to the roots and pecked at the ground. Then it beat its wings against the dirt, fast then slow — the same pattern Noggin knew. His heart jumped. The bird was showing him a place, not just a path. Noggin knelt where the bird had pecked. He saw a stone there, rounded and gray, half buried between two roots. It did not look special. But when he touched it, a low hum ran up his arm, like the stone was holding its breath. He pressed his ear down. Deep below, far deeper than worms, something vast turned in its sleep. "Here," he whispered. "You're under here." He set his drum against the stone so the sound would pour straight down. He breathed. Then he played the rhythm, three fast, two slow, over and over, and this time the ground drank it. The hum grew. The stone warmed under his knees. A crack opened in the dirt and ran between the roots. The tree shook. Leaves fell in a green rain. From far below came a sound like a mountain clearing its throat. The giant had heard him. The giant was stirring. Noggin laughed and kept drumming, but the crack widened fast. It split past the roots and raced across the clearing. The ground buckled under his feet. The warm stone was no longer warm — it was hot, and the hum had turned to a deep, grinding roar that he could feel in his teeth. The bird shot into the sky. Noggin grabbed his drum and scrambled back. He had found the giant. He had woken it. Now the earth itself was breaking open, and he had no plan at all for what climbed out.