The Battle of the Labyrinth

reluctantly.
    “Master Underwood,” Silenus announced, “we will give you one more chance.”
    Grover brightened. “Thank you!”
    “One more week.”
    “What? But, sir! That’s impossible!”
    “One more week, Master Underwood. And then, if you cannot prove your claims, it will be time for you to pursue another career. Something to suit your dramatic talents. Puppet theater, perhaps. Or tap dancing.”
    “But, sir, I—I can’t lose my searcher’s license. My whole life—”
    “This meeting of the council is adjourned,” Silenus said. “And now let us enjoy our noonday meal!”
    The old satyr clapped his hands, and a bunch of nymphs melted out of the trees with platters of vegetables, fruits, tin cans, and other goat delicacies. The circle of satyrs broke and charged the food. Grover walked dejectedly toward us. His faded blue T-shirt had a picture of a satyr on it. It read GOT HOOVES?
    “Hi, Percy,” he said, so depressed he didn’t even offer to shake my hand. “That went well, huh?”
    “Those old goats!” Juniper said. “Oh, Grover, they don’t know how hard you’ve tried!”
    “There is another option,” Clarisse said darkly.
    “No. No.” Juniper shook her head. “Grover, I won’t let you.”
    His face was ashen. “I—I’ll have to think about it. But we don’t even know where to look.”
    “What are you talking about?” I asked.
    In the distance, a conch horn sounded.
    Annabeth pursed her lips. “I’ll fill you in later, Percy. We’d better get back to our cabins. Inspection is starting.”
    * * *
    It didn’t seem fair that I’d have to do cabin inspection when I just got to camp, but that’s the way it worked. Every afternoon, one of the senior counselors came around with a papyrus scroll checklist. Best cabin got first shower hour, which meant hot water guaranteed. Worst cabin got kitchen patrol after dinner.
    The problem for me: I was usually the only one in the Poseidon cabin, and I’m not exactly what you would call neat. The cleaning harpies only came through on the last day of summer, so my cabin was probably just the way I’d left it on winter break: my candy wrappers and chip bags still on my bunk, my armor for capture the flag lying in pieces all around the cabin.
    I raced toward the commons area, where the twelve cabins—one for each Olympian god—made a U around the central green. The Demeter kids were sweeping out theirs and making fresh flowers grow in their window boxes. Just by snapping their fingers they could make honeysuckle vines bloom over their doorway and daisies cover their roof, which was totally unfair. I don’t think they ever got last place in inspection. The guys in the Hermes cabin were scrambling around in a panic, stashing dirty laundry under their beds and accusing each other of taking stuff. They were slobs, but they still had a head start on me.
    Over at the Aphrodite cabin, Silena Beauregard was just coming out, checking items off the inspection scroll. I cursed under my breath. Silena was nice, but she was an absolute neat freak, the worst inspector. She liked things to be pretty. I didn’t do “pretty.” I could almost feel my arms getting heavy from all the dishes I would have to scrub tonight.
    The Poseidon cabin was at the end of the row of “male god” cabins on the right side of the green. It was made of gray shell-encrusted sea rock, long and low like a bunker, but it had windows that faced the sea and it always had a good breeze blowing through it.
    I dashed inside, wondering if maybe I could do a quick under-the-bed cleaning job like the Hermes guys, and I found my half-brother Tyson sweeping the floor.
    “Percy!” he bellowed. He dropped his broom and ran at me. If you’ve never been charged by an enthusiastic Cyclops wearing a flowered apron and rubber cleaning gloves, I’m telling you, it’ll wake you up quick.
    “Hey, big guy!” I said. “Ow, watch the ribs. The ribs.”
    I managed to survive his bear hug. He put me down, grinning like crazy, his single calf-brown eye full of excitement. His teeth were as yellow and crooked as ever, and his hair was a rat’s nest. He wore ragged XXXL jeans and a tattered flannel shirt under his flowered apron, but he was still a sight for sore eyes. I hadn’t seen him in almost a year, since he’d gone under the sea to work at the Cyclopes’ forges.
    “You are okay?” he asked. “Not eaten by monsters?”
    “Not even a little bit.” I showed him that I still