The Stories We Heard

Chapter 1

The knock on the door at five A.M. was both a blessing and a curse for Savannah Smith. It was a loud knock: the hardy type brought about by thick skin on knuckles and the echoing ring of the metal door as it resisted the heavy pounding. Savannah blinked slowly, and with a wry twist of her lips yawned and wiped a dribble of drool off her cheek.

A quick inventory of the room reminded her of what had happened: A battlezone of highlighters and green pens, crumpled papers with doodles and quick scrawled notes, sticky notes lined every edge of the table and paperclips had spilled across the floor. She, herself, was wearing an old T-shirt for a band she didn't know and gym shorts from a high school she had graduated from three months ago. She had worked herself to sleep again, and by the looks of it there had been, yet again, no success.

The knocking got louder as Savannah pried her aching body off the chair. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she mumbled, more for her own benefit than that of the visitor of the ungodly hour. She balled up her blanket and grabbed her jacket from a chair nearby, shrugging it on hurriedly as she crossed the room. She unlatched the door, and yawned out at the visitor, "Yes?"

He was out of place. But considering that Savannah was a girl driving an RV on a road trip, she didn't have room to talk. Outside the barest beginnings of daylight shown through the misty clouds, and the brisk cold air reminded her that she was, indeed, in an unknown location. The rumbling of an engine nearby brought to life the situation. The areas smelt like gasoline, but it was only because she had parked at a truck refuel stop. The signs blinked with promises of the best pork she'd ever eaten but Savannah thought that the family restaurant in Tennessee had been better.

The boy was roughly her age, give or take a few years, with matted dark hair that clung to his head in a style that she immediately labeled as "mop". His cheeks were rounded and his eyes dark. Savannah was a whole step above him, but his height made them eye to eye. He looked just as surprised as she did that they were the same age.

Savannah was suddenly glad that she had not been in pajamas.

"Your sign," He said with a voice that suggested he hadn't spoken out loud in several days. "Is it real?"

Savannah glaced at her door, just to make sure she knew what sign he meant. Yes, that sign, of course.

"Knock if you have a story, free meal will be provided." She repeated from memory. Despite the early hour, a faint smile ghosted over her lips. "Do you have a story?"

The boy twiddled his fingers, "Does it have to be an action story? My story isn't-- I mean. I-I'm not good with action stories. I can do romance--well kind of. Not really. I mean, I could try? Does it have to be real? Or can it like have dragons and knights and aliens?"

Savannah rubbed sleep from her eyes, "It can be whatever. As long as it's not wasting my time." She turned away, leaving the door open, "I've got eggs. I think. Unless you rather get coffee from over there."

"Huh? Oh! Uh, eggs are good?"

She walked through the mess that came with her job (if it could be called a job. Savannah liked to think it was) and made her way to the kitchen-- if it could be called a kitchen. (Savannah didn't it was). The stove was big enough to fry maybe two eggs at once and cook bacon on another burner. The fridge was opposite stocked with milk and breakfast foods. She heard the boy stumble in after her, his nervous breathing as if he couldn't quite believe it was happening. Savannah had given up on keeping her RV as clean as physically possible, especially for the guys who showed up at her doorstep at five in the morning looking for food.

"Don't mind the mess," She called to him as she heated up the burners.

In the artificial light Savannah got her first good look at him. He stood up a couple inches under the roof at his full height, but slouched as if to make himself smaller. Savannah could understand: sometimes she felt too big for the RV and she was only three-fourths of his height. His clothes were old, tattered jeans with holes in the knees, sneakers that had seen better days and better care. His shirt was dirty, but only to the practiced eye. Savannah asked his name.