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BULLFIGHTING
    We tore through the night along dark country roads. Wind slammed against the Camaro. Rain lashed the windshield. I didn’t know how my mom could see anything, but she kept her foot on the gas.
    Every time there was a flash of lightning, I looked at Grover sitting next to me in the backseat and I wondered if I’d gone insane, or if he was wearing some kind of shag-carpet pants. But, no, the smell was one I remembered from kindergarten field trips to the petting zoo— lanolin, like from wool. The smell of a wet barnyard animal.
    All I could think to say was, “So, you and my mom . . . know each other?”
    Grover’s eyes flitted to the rearview mirror, though there were no cars behind us. “Not exactly,” he said. “I mean, we’ve never met in person. But she knew I was watching you.”
    “Watching me?”
    “Keeping tabs on you. Making sure you were okay. But I wasn’t faking being your friend,” he added hastily. “I am your friend.”
    “Um . . . what are you, exactly?”
    “That doesn’t matter right now.”
    “It doesn’t matter? From the waist down, my best friend is a donkey—”
    Grover let out a sharp, throaty “Blaa-ha-ha!”
    I’d heard him make that sound before, but I’d always assumed it was a nervous laugh. Now I realized it was more of an irritated bleat.
    “Goat!” he cried.
    “What?”
    “I’m a goat from the waist down.”
    “You just said it didn’t matter.”
    “Blaa-ha-ha! There are satyrs who would trample you underhoof for such an insult!”
    “Whoa. Wait. Satyrs. You mean like . . . Mr. Brunner’s myths?”
    “Were those old ladies at the fruit stand a myth , Percy? Was Mrs. Dodds a myth?”
    “So you admit there was a Mrs. Dodds!”
    “Of course.”
    “Then why—”
    “The less you knew, the fewer monsters you’d attract,” Grover said, like that should be perfectly obvious. “We put Mist over the humans’ eyes. We hoped you’d think the Kindly One was a hallucination. But it was no good. You started to realize who you are.”
    “Who I—wait a minute, what do you mean?”
    The weird bellowing noise rose up again somewhere behind us, closer than before. Whatever was chasing us was still on our trail.
    “Percy,” my mom said, “there’s too much to explain and not enough time. We have to get you to safety.”
    “Safety from what? Who’s after me?”
    “Oh, nobody much,” Grover said, obviously still miffed about the donkey comment. “Just the Lord of the Dead and a few of his blood-thirstiest minions.”
    “Grover!”
    “Sorry, Mrs. Jackson. Could you drive faster, please?”
    I tried to wrap my mind around what was happening, but I couldn’t do it. I knew this wasn’t a dream. I had no imagination. I could never dream up something this weird.
    My mom made a hard left. We swerved onto a narrower road, racing past darkened farmhouses and wooded hills and PICK YOUR OWN STRAWBERRIES signs on white picket fences.
    “Where are we going?” I asked.
    “The summer camp I told you about.” My mother’s voice was tight; she was trying for my sake not to be scared. “The place your father wanted to send you.”
    “The place you didn’t want me to go.”
    “Please, dear,” my mother begged. “This is hard enough. Try to understand. You’re in danger.”
    “Because some old ladies cut yarn.”
    “Those weren’t old ladies,” Grover said. “Those were the Fates. Do you know what it means—the fact they appeared in front of you? They only do that when you’re about to . . . when someone’s about to die.”
    “Whoa. You said ‘you.’”
    “No I didn’t. I said ‘someone.’”
    “You meant ‘you.’ As in me .”
    “I meant you , like ‘someone.’ Not you, you .”
    “Boys!” my mom said.
    She pulled the wheel hard to the right, and I got a glimpse of a figure she’d swerved to avoid—a dark fluttering shape now lost behind us in the storm.
    “What was that?” I asked.
    “We’re almost there,” my mother said,