𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 - 𝑷. 𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒐𝒏

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

Word of the bathroom fiasco spread faster than a wildfire on a windy day. Everywhere I went, campers pointed and whispered about "toilet water." I half-expected to see "Percy the Plumber" written on a T-shirt.

Or maybe they were just gaping at Annabeth, who still looked like she'd been doused in a water balloon fight gone wrong.

"Over here, toilet boy," she said, dragging me around camp. First up was the metal shop, where kids were busy forging swords that looked like they'd be more at home in a sci-fi movie than in a demigod's backpack. Next, we stumbled into the arts-and-crafts room, where satyrs were passionately sandblasting a giant statue of a goat-man. I couldn't help but think that was either very avant-garde or a colossal mistake.

Then we arrived at the climbing wall, which was less "climbing" and more "surviving." It was two walls that shook, dropped boulders, sprayed lava, and tried to squeeze you out like a tube of toothpaste if you didn't reach the top fast enough. I felt like a contestant on a really dangerous game show.

Finally, we made it back to the canoeing lake, which, ironically, was probably the safest spot in camp.

"I've got training to do," Annabeth said flatly, looking like she'd rather be wrestling a Cyclops than babysitting me. "Dinner's at seven-thirty. Just follow your cabin to the mess hall."

"Hey, about the toilets—"

"Whatever."

"It wasn't my fault!" I protested.

She raised an eyebrow. I could tell she thought it was totally my fault. Apparently, I had somehow channeled my inner plumbing god and made the toilets erupt like Old Faithful.

"You need to talk to the Oracle," Annabeth said.

"Who?" I asked, half-expecting a wise old turtle or something.

"Not who. What. The Oracle. I'll ask Chiron."

I stared into the lake, wishing someone would just drop a straight answer into the water like a fishing lure.

That's when I noticed two teenage girls sitting cross-legged at the base of the pier, looking like they were at a spa day instead of the bottom of a lake. They wore blue jeans and shimmering green T-shirts, and their brown hair floated around them like they were auditioning for a shampoo commercial. They smiled and waved like I was their long-lost brother—who they were definitely hoping would bring them snacks.

"Don't encourage them," Annabeth warned. "Naiads are terrible flirts."

"Naiads?" I repeated, feeling completely overwhelmed. "That's it. I want to go home now."

Annabeth frowned. "Don't you get it, Percy? You are home. This is the only safe place on Earth for kids like us."

"You mean, mentally disturbed kids?"

"I mean not human. Not totally human, anyway. Half-human."

"Half-human and half-what?"

"I think you know."

I really didn't want to admit it, but there was a tingle in my limbs that felt a lot like the last time my mom mentioned my dad.

"God," I said, "half-god."

Annabeth nodded. "Your father isn't dead, Percy. He's one of the Olympians."

"That's... crazy."

"Is it? What's the most common thing gods did in the old stories? They ran around falling in love with humans and having kids with them. Do you think they've changed their habits in the last few millennia?"