Forgotten memories

Orion: A BLODY WARSHIP!?

"I'm home!" I shouted the moment I shoved the door open, dripping all over the entryway of my grandmother's apartment in Brooklyn.

I was soaked. Completely drenched. Who would've thought camping in Maine for a week would mean dealing with endless rain? But of course—it had rained, and I'd carried that rain with me all the way back down to Brooklyn. My sneakers squelched with every step.

From the kitchen, my grandmother burst out, still wearing her apron. She looked tired—no surprise there. Being a therapist will do that to you, and worrying about a grandson who spent practically every free weekend chasing after a missing friend certainly didn't help. Still, her smile was this perfect mix of relief and joy, like she'd been holding her breath until I walked through that door.

"Oh, honey," she sighed, wrapping me up in a hug, ignoring the fact that her clothes and apron were now just as soaked as mine. When she pulled back, she gripped my shoulders and gave me a once-over. "You look terrible!"

She wasn't wrong. My usual outfit—jeans, a black fitted T-shirt, and my rain jacket—looked like it had gone twelve rounds with a mudslide. Add in monster dust, some kind of slime (don't ask), a spare fang (really, don't ask), and, of course, the fact that everything was dripping wet... yeah. Terrible was generous.

"Did you find him?" she asked gently, taking my overloaded backpack from me. I just shook my head. Another false lead.

"I did find another demigod, though," I admitted as I peeled off my jacket and shoved it into the washing machine. "Kid was only six. Ran away from home. His family knew his dad was a god, but not which one. I got a message to Grover—he said he'd send someone to help." One by one, I started tossing the rest of my soggy clothes into the wash.

"I see." She gave me that thoughtful therapist look, the one she couldn't quite turn off, then her tone softened again. "Well, you've arrived just in time for dinner. I made lasagna—with garlic bread. Your favorite."

My stomach immediately growled at the mere mention of it, and she smiled knowingly.

"Go take a shower, then come eat. Shall I call Christine?" she asked.

I just nodded, shoving the last of my muddy clothes into the machine before trudging off toward the bathroom, already dreaming of hot water and garlic bread.

***

I ended up in the shower for maybe twenty minutes—longer than I'd meant to, honestly. It wasn't because I wanted to keep dinner waiting, not at all. It was more... ritual, I guess. A deep scrub-down after a week in the mud, rain, and monster guts. I even "borrowed" some of my grandmother's fancy soap—the kind she always told me not to use—just to make sure I got all the grime out of my hair.

That's when I found it. A scratch, deep and angry-looking, just below my chest. Red, raw, dried blood crusted around the edges. Not the worst thing I'd ever seen on myself, but definitely not a paper cut either.

By the time I finally dragged myself into the kitchen, smelling vaguely like lavender soap instead of swamp, Helen was pulling the lasagna out of the oven. The whole apartment smelled like heaven. She took one look at me, and I pointed wordlessly at the wound.

She sighed, set the tray down, peeled off her oven mitts, and came over. With the same calmness she always had, she prodded the skin around the cut, checking it. Her brow furrowed for just a second.
"Not infected," she decided after a moment, "but you do need stitches. Sit."

She pulled out a chair like it was a command, and I obeyed, dropping into it. A minute later she disappeared into the hallway and came back with the trusty old med kit. She set it on the table, pulled up another chair, and with the kind of ease that only came from too much practice, she got to work stitching me back together.