The Lightning Thief

hole.
    “Oh, Styx!” he mumbled.
    Thunder rolled across the clear sky.
    As he struggled to get his hoof back in the fake foot, I thought, Well, that settles it.
    Grover was a satyr. I was ready to bet that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I’d find tiny horns on his head. But I was too miserable to care that satyrs existed, or even minotaurs.
    All that meant was my mom really had been squeezed into nothingness, dissolved into yellow light.
    I was alone. An orphan. I would have to live with . . . Smelly Gabe? No. That would never happen. I would live on the streets first. I would pretend I was seventeen and join the army. I’d do something.
    Grover was still sniffling. The poor kid—poor goat, satyr, whatever—looked as if he expected to be hit.
    I said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
    “Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect you.”
    “Did my mother ask you to protect me?”
    “No. But that’s my job. I’m a keeper. At least . . . I was.”
    “But why . . .” I suddenly felt dizzy, my vision swimming.
    “Don’t strain yourself,” Grover said. “Here.”
    He helped me hold my glass and put the straw to my lips.
    I recoiled at the taste, because I was expecting apple juice. It wasn’t that at all. It was chocolate-chip cookies. Liquid cookies. And not just any cookies—my mom’s homemade blue chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with the chips still melting. Drinking it, my whole body felt warm and good, full of energy. My grief didn’t go away, but I felt as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek, given me a cookie the way she used to when I was small, and told me everything was going to be okay.
    Before I knew it, I’d drained the glass. I stared into it, sure I’d just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn’t even melted.
    “Was it good?” Grover asked.
    I nodded.
    “What did it taste like?” He sounded so wistful, I felt guilty.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I should’ve let you taste.”
    His eyes got wide. “No! That’s not what I meant. I just . . . wondered.”
    “Chocolate-chip cookies,” I said. “My mom’s. Homemade.”
    He sighed. “And how do you feel?”
    “Like I could throw Nancy Bobofit a hundred yards.”
    “That’s good,” he said. “That’s good. I don’t think you could risk drinking any more of that stuff.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He took the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it were dynamite, and set it back on the table. “Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting.”
    The porch wrapped all the way around the farmhouse.
    My legs felt wobbly, trying to walk that far. Grover offered to carry the Minotaur horn, but I held on to it. I’d paid for that souvenir the hard way. I wasn’t going to let it go.
    As we came around the opposite end of the house, I caught my breath.
    We must’ve been on the north shore of Long Island, because on this side of the house, the valley marched all the way up to the water, which glittered about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I simply couldn’t process everything I was seeing. The landscape was dotted with buildings that looked like ancient Greek architecture—an open-air pavilion, an amphitheater, a circular arena—except that they all looked brand new, their white marble columns sparkling in the sun. In a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school–age kids and satyrs played volleyball. Canoes glided across a small lake. Kids in bright orange T-shirts like Grover’s were chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. Some shot targets at an archery range. Others rode horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was hallucinating, some of their horses had wings.
    Down at the end of the porch, two men sat across from each other at a card table. The blond-haired girl who’d spoon-fed me popcorn-flavored pudding was leaning on the porch rail next to them.
    The man facing me was small, but porky. He had a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black it was almost purple. He looked like those paintings of baby angels— what do you call them, hubbubs? No, cherubs. That’s it. He looked like a cherub who’d turned middle-aged in a trailer park. He wore a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he would’ve fit right in at one of Gabe’s poker parties, except I got the feeling this guy could’ve out-gambled even my stepfather.
    “That’s Mr. D,” Grover murmured to me. “He’s the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that’s Annabeth Chase. She’s just a camper, but