The Sea of Monsters

somebody had plowed over him with a tractor. I wondered for the millionth time how he’d gotten hurt.
    “Daddy always cared for m-me,” he sniffled. “Now . . . I think he was mean to have a Cyclops boy. I should not have been born.”
    “Don’t talk that way! Poseidon claimed you, didn’t he? So . . . he must care about you . . . a lot. . . .”
    My voice trailed off as I thought about all those years Tyson had lived on the streets of New York in a cardboard refrigerator box. How could Tyson think that Poseidon had cared for him? What kind of dad let that happen to his kid, even if his kid was a monster?
    “Tyson . . . camp will be a good home for you. The others will get used to you. I promise.”
    Tyson sighed. I waited for him to say something. Then I realized he was already asleep.
    I lay back on my bed and tried to close my eyes, but I just couldn’t. I was afraid I might have another dream about Grover. If the empathy link was real . . . if something happened to Grover . . . would I ever wake up?
    The full moon shone through my window. The sound of the surf rumbled in the distance. I could smell the warm scent of the strawberry fields, and hear the laughter of the dryads as they chased owls through the forest. But something felt wrong about the night—the sickness of Thalia’s tree, spreading across the valley.
    Could Clarisse save Half-Blood Hill? I thought the odds were better of me getting a “Best Camper” award from Tantalus.
    I got out of bed and pulled on some clothes. I grabbed a beach blanket and a six-pack of Coke from under my bunk. The Cokes were against the rules. No outside snacks or drinks were allowed, but if you talked to the right guy in Hermes’s cabin and paid him a few golden drachma, he could smuggle in almost anything from the nearest convenience store.
    Sneaking out after curfew was against the rules, too. If I got caught I’d either get in big trouble or be eaten by the harpies. But I wanted to see the ocean. I always felt better there. My thoughts were clearer. I left the cabin and headed for the beach.
    I spread my blanket near the surf and popped open a Coke. For some reason sugar and caffeine always calmed down my hyperactive brain. I tried to decide what to do to save the camp, but nothing came to me. I wished Poseidon would talk to me, give me some advice or something.
    The sky was clear and starry. I was checking out the constellations Annabeth had taught me—Sagittarius, Hercules, Corona Borealis—when somebody said, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
    I almost spewed soda.
    Standing right next to me was a guy in nylon running shorts and a New York City Marathon T-shirt. He was slim and fit, with salt-and-pepper hair and a sly smile. He looked kind of familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why.
    My first thought was that he must’ve been taking a midnight jog down the beach and strayed inside the camp borders. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Regular mortals couldn’t enter the valley. But maybe with the tree’s magic weakening he’d managed to slip in. But in the middle of the night? And there was nothing around except farmland and state preserves. Where would this guy have jogged from?
    “May I join you?” he asked. “I haven’t sat down in ages.”
    Now, I know—a strange guy in the middle of the night. Common sense: I was supposed to run away, yell for help, etc. But the guy acted so calm about the whole thing that I found it hard to be afraid.
    I said, “Uh, sure.”
    He smiled. “Your hospitality does you credit. Oh, and Coca-Cola! May I?”
    He sat at the other end of the blanket, popped a soda and took a drink. “Ah . . . that hits the spot. Peace and quiet at—”
    A cell phone went off in his pocket.
    The jogger sighed. He pulled out his phone and my eyes got big, because it glowed with a bluish light. When he extended the antenna, two creatures began writhing around it—green snakes, no bigger than earthworms.
    The jogger didn’t seem to notice. He checked his LCD display and cursed. “I’ve got to take this. Just a sec . . .” Then into the phone: “Hello?”
    He listened. The mini-snakes writhed up and down the antenna right next to his ear.
    “Yeah,” the jogger said. “Listen—I know, but . . . I don’t care if he is chained to a rock with vultures pecking at his liver, if he doesn’t have a tracking number, we can’t locate his package. . . . A gift to humankind, great . . . You know how many of those we deliver—Oh,