𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐀 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 - 𝑷. 𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒐𝒏

𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨, 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐝

I had the weirdest dreams full of barnyard animals. Seriously, it was like "Charlotte's Web" on a horror movie binge.

Most of them were plotting my demise, while the rest just wanted snacks.

I must've woken up a dozen times, but everything I heard and saw was so nonsensical that I just passed out again.

I remember lying in a soft bed, being spoon-fed something that tasted like buttered popcorn, except it was pudding.

A girl with curly blond hair loomed over me, smirking as she wiped pudding dribbles off my chin like it was a new sport.

When she saw my eyes open, she leaned in and whispered, "What's going to happen at the summer solstice?"

I managed to croak out, "What?"

She looked around like she was about to drop a top-secret recipe. "What was stolen? We've only got weeks left!"

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, "I don't—"

Just then, someone knocked on the door, and the girl filled my mouth with pudding as if I were a baby bird.

The next time I woke up, she was gone, replaced by a husky blond dude who looked like he should be surfing instead of babysitting me.

He had blue eyes—like, at least a dozen of them—scattered across his cheeks, forehead, and the backs of his hands. I didn't know whether to ask for his autograph or report him to a circus.

When I finally came to, everything around me looked almost normal, except way nicer than my usual hangouts.

I was lounging in a deck chair on a huge porch, gazing across a meadow at rolling green hills that looked like they were auditioning for a nature documentary.

The breeze smelled like strawberries—like someone had spilled a smoothie everywhere. I had a cozy blanket over my legs and a pillow behind my neck.

All of that was great, but my mouth felt like a scorpion had set up camp in there.

My tongue was dry and crusty, and every one of my teeth ached like they'd just run a marathon.

On the table next to me sat a tall drink that looked suspiciously like iced apple juice, complete with a green straw and a paper parasol poking through a maraschino cherry.

My hand was so weak I nearly dropped it like a hot potato.

"Careful," said a familiar voice.

Grover leaned against the porch railing, looking like he hadn't slept since the dawn of time.

He cradled a shoebox under one arm, wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops, and a bright orange T-shirt that screamed CAMP HALF-BLOOD. Just plain old Grover, not the goat boy this time.

So maybe I'd had a nightmare.

Maybe my mom was okay.

We were on vacation, and we had just stopped at this big house for...whatever reason. And then...

"You saved my life," Grover said, all serious. "I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this."

He reverently placed the shoebox in my lap like it contained the crown jewels.

Inside was a black-and-white bull's horn, jagged at the base and splattered with dried blood.

Great. It hadn't been a nightmare.

"The Minotaur," I said.

"Urn, Percy, it's not a good idea—"

"That's what they call him in the Greek myths, isn't it?" I interrupted. "Half man, half bull."