NEVER BE THE SAME . . . percy jackson

forty two: the old man.

IT WASN'T AS hard as they thought. The screaming and the weed whacker helped.

They'd brought lightweight Polartec jackets with their supplies ( minus Brooklyn, who "stole" Percy's so she was happy ) so they bundled up against the cold rain and walked for a few blocks through the mostly deserted streets.

They saw some bicycle traffic and a few homeless guys huddled in doorways, but the majority of Portlanders seemed to be staying indoors. Cowards. Who wouldn't want to stay outdoors, in the rain, living their best fantasy life? Wow, Brooklyn was finally feeling the power the storm was giving her, and it felt like a drug; making her feel hyper and ecstatic. She took off the jacket and offered it to Percy.

He frowned at her. "Put it on. You'll get cold."

"I'll be fine, Percy," a big smile was on her face as she spun around. "I love the rain, and it loves me right back."

"Are you high or something?" he asked.

"Off power," her skin sparked with electricity, and she brought it into a ball that hovered at the point of her index finger, which was easier than it usually felt. At least, that's what she thought it felt like. She didn't think about it as the electricity went back into her body, sparks coming off of her skin. "Seriously. You think Father would kill me?"

"The cold will."

"I don't get cold."

"Put the damn jacket on, Hayward."

Brooklyn ignored Percy, shoving the jacket into his hands as she skipped merrily ahead.

As they made their way down Glisan Street, she saw people in cafés enjoying coffee and pastries. She was about to suggest that they stop for coffee ( as if she needed any with her hyperactivity, listen, it's a miracle sugary liquid ) when she heard a voice down the street yelling: "HA! TAKE THAT, STUPID CHICKENS!" followed by the revving of a small engine and a lot of squawking.

Percy glanced at them. "You think—?"

"Probably," Frank agreed.

They ran toward the sounds.

The next block over, they found a big open parking lot with tree-lined sidewalks and rows of food trucks facing the streets on all four sides. Brooklyn had seen food trucks before, but never so many in one place. Some were simple white metal boxes on wheels, with awnings and serving counters. Others were painted blue or purple or polka-dotted, with big banners out front and colorful menu boards and tables like DIY sidewalk cafés. One advertised Korean / Brazilian fusion tacos, which sounded like some kind of top-secret radioactive cuisine. Another offered sushi on a stick. A third was selling deep-fried ice cream sandwiches. The smell was amazing — dozens of different kitchens cooking at once.

Brooklyn's stomach rumbled. Most of the food carts were open for business, but there was hardly anyone around. They could get anything they wanted! Deep-fried ice cream sandwiches? Oh, man, that sounded way better than wheat germ.

Unfortunately, there was more happening than just cooking. In the center of the lot, behind all the food trucks, an old man in a bathrobe was running around with a weed whacker, screaming at a flock of bird-ladies who were trying to steal food off a picnic table.

"Harpies," said Hazel. "Which means—"

"That's Phineas," Brooklyn guessed.

They ran across the street and squeezed between the Korean / Brazilian truck and a Chinese egg roll burrito vendor. Brooklyn fucking loved egg rolls. And burritos. She wondered what it would taste like to have them at the same time.