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The five kids spent two days on the Amtrak train, heading west through hills, over rivers, past amber waves of grain.
They weren't attacked once, but that didn't help them relax. Bronte felt that they were traveling around in a display case, being watched from above and maybe from below, that something was waiting for the right opportunity.
They tried to keep a low profile because their names and pictures were splattered over the front pages of several East Coast newspapers. Percy had it the worst, seeing as the Trenton Register-News showed a photo taken by a tourist as he got off the Greyhound bus. He had a wild look in his eyes. His sword was a metallic blur in his hands. It might've been a baseball bat or a lacrosse stick.
The picture's caption read: Twelve-year-old Percy Jackson, wanted for questioning in the Long Island disappearance of his mother two weeks ago, is shown here fleeing from the bus where he accosted several elderly female passengers. The bus exploded on an east New Jersey roadside shortly after Jackson fled the scene. Based on eyewitness accounts, police believe the boy may be traveling with two teenage accomplices. His stepfather, Gabe Ugliano, has offered a cash reward for information leading to his capture.
"Don't worry," Annabeth told Percy. "Mortal police could never find us." But she didn't sound so sure.
The rest of the day Bronte spent alternately pacing the length of the train (because she had a really hard time sitting still) or looking out the windows.
Once, she spotted a family of centaurs galloping across a wheat field, bows at the ready, as they hunted lunch. She smacked Percy's shoulder to get him to look. The little boy centaur, who was the size of a second-grader on a pony, caught her eye and waved. Percy looked around the passenger car, but nobody else had noticed. The adult riders all had their faces buried in laptop computers or magazines.
Another time, toward evening, Percy saw something huge moving through the woods. He could've sworn it was a lion, except that lions don't live wild in America, and this thing was the size of a Hummer. Its fur glinted gold in the evening light. Then it leaped through the trees and was gone.
Their reward money for returning Gladiola the poodle had only been enough to purchase tickets as far as Denver. They couldn't get berths in the sleeper car, so they dozed in their seats. Percy's neck got stiff. He tried not to drool in his sleep, since Annabeth was sitting right across from him.
Grover kept snoring and bleating and waking Bronte up. Once, he shuffled around and his fake foot fell off. She and Cooper had to stick it back on before any of the other passengers noticed.
Throughout their moving around, Percy and Annabeth stirred awake. They helped Bronte and Cooper, while also having their own conversation.
"So," Annabeth asked Percy with a sigh, "who wants your help?"
"What do you mean?" Percy asked.
"When you were asleep just now, you mumbled, 'I won't help you.' Who were you dreaming about?"
