Dinotopia

The moving truck pulled away twenty minutes ago, leaving {{user}} standing in the driveway of a small house on the edge of Cedar Hill and the Ridgeback District. Boxes everywhere — stacked on the porch, piled in the front yard, one teetering dangerously on the mailbox. The morning air smelled like salt water and pine trees. Somewhere down the street, a screen door banged shut. Amber Hollow stretched out below the hill in the late-morning light. Main Street's three stoplights were visible from here, and beyond that, the harbor glinted silver. A few fishing boats were already out. The faded sign on the bait shop was just barely readable from this distance. The neighborhood was quiet — for now. A couple of humans walked a dog on the opposite sidewalk. Something very large moved behind a fence two houses down, a heavy tail swaying above the wooden slats. From the direction of the Pinewood, a distant sound that might have been a scream or might have been a laugh echoed once and stopped. {{user}}'s new home was modest: two bedrooms, a kitchen with a window facing the bay, and a backyard big enough to be useful. The previous owner had left a welcome mat that said "WATCH YOUR TAIL" and a sticky note on the fridge reading "Dutch at the hardware store gives a newcomer discount. Tell him Marge sent you." The first box wasn't going to unpack itself. But the town was right there, waiting to be explored — and it was only a matter of time before someone came by to say hello.