The Lightning Thief

could still feel the grip of the chasm monster around my chest. “How long was I asleep?”
    “Long enough for me to cook breakfast.” Annabeth tossed me a bag of nacho-flavored corn chips from Aunty Em’s snack bar. “And Grover went exploring. Look, he found a friend.”
    My eyes had trouble focusing.
    Grover was sitting cross-legged on a blanket with something fuzzy in his lap, a dirty, unnaturally pink stuffed animal.
    No. It wasn’t a stuffed animal. It was a pink poodle.
    The poodle yapped at me suspiciously. Grover said, “No, he’s not.”
    I blinked. “Are you . . . talking to that thing?”
    The poodle growled.
    “This thing ,” Grover warned, “is our ticket west. Be nice to him.”
    “You can talk to animals?”
    Grover ignored the question. “Percy, meet Gladiola. Gladiola, Percy.”
    I stared at Annabeth, figuring she’d crack up at this practical joke they were playing on me, but she looked deadly serious.
    “I’m not saying hello to a pink poodle,” I said. “Forget it.”
    “Percy,” Annabeth said. “I said hello to the poodle. You say hello to the poodle.”
    The poodle growled.
    I said hello to the poodle.
    Grover explained that he’d come across Gladiola in the woods and they’d struck up a conversation. The poodle had run away from a rich local family, who’d posted a $200 reward for his return. Gladiola didn’t really want to go back to his family, but he was willing to if it meant helping Grover.
    “How does Gladiola know about the reward?” I asked.
    “He read the signs,” Grover said. “Duh.”
    “Of course,” I said. “Silly me.”
    “So we turn in Gladiola,” Annabeth explained in her best strategy voice, “we get money, and we buy tickets to Los Angeles. Simple.”
    I thought about my dream—the whispering voices of the dead, the thing in the chasm, and my mother’s face, shimmering as it dissolved into gold. All that might be waiting for me in the West.
    “Not another bus,” I said warily.
    “No,” Annabeth agreed.
    She pointed downhill, toward train tracks I hadn’t been able to see last night in the dark. “There’s an Amtrack station half a mile that way. According to Gladiola, the westbound train leaves at noon.”

I PLUNGE TO MY DEATH
    W e spent two days on the Amtrak train, heading west through hills, over rivers, past amber waves of grain.
    We weren’t attacked once, but I didn’t relax. I felt that we were traveling around in a display case, being watched from above and maybe from below, that something was waiting for the right opportunity.
    I tried to keep a low profile because my name and picture were splattered over the front pages of several East Coast newspapers. The Trenton Register-News showed a photo taken by a tourist as I got off the Greyhound bus. I had a wild look in my eyes. My sword was a metallic blur in my hands. It might’ve been a baseball bat or a lacrosse stick.
    The picture’s caption read:
    Twelve-year-old Percy Jackson, wanted for questioning in the Long Island disappearance of his mother two weeks ago, is shown here fleeing from the bus where he accosted several elderly female passengers. The bus exploded on an east New Jersey roadside shortly after Jackson fled the scene. Based on eyewitness accounts, police believe the boy may be traveling with two teenage accomplices. His stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, has offered a cash reward for information leading to his capture.
    “Don’t worry,” Annabeth told me. “Mortal police could never find us.” But she didn’t sound so sure.
    The rest of the day I spent alternately pacing the length of the train (because I had a really hard time sitting still) or looking out the windows.
    Once, I spotted a family of centaurs galloping across a wheat field, bows at the ready, as they hunted lunch. The little boy centaur, who was the size of a second-grader on a pony, caught my eye and waved. I looked around the passenger car, but nobody else had noticed. The adult riders all had their faces buried in laptop computers or magazines.
    Another time, toward evening, I saw something huge moving through the woods. I could’ve sworn it was a lion, except that lions don’t live wild in America, and this thing was the size of a Hummer. Its fur glinted gold in the evening light. Then it leaped through the trees and was gone.
    Our reward money for returning Gladiola the poodle had only been enough to purchase tickets as far as Denver. We couldn’t get berths in the sleeper car, so