Meg hadn’t bothered finding a guest room. She’d crashed on the nearest couch and was snoring away.

I stood nearby, not ready to go back to the room I shared with Leo Valdez. I watched the moon rise through the giant rose window above Josephine’s workstation.

A voice at my shoulder said, “Not tired?”

It was a good thing I was no longer god of the sun. If someone had startled me that badly in my chariot, I would’ve charged upward so fast that high noon would’ve happened at 6:00 A.M.

Jimmy stood next to me, a dapper apparition in brown. The moonlight gleamed copper on his scalp. His necklace of red and white beads peeked from beneath the collar of his dress shirt.

“Oh!” I said. “Um…Nah.” I leaned against the wall, hoping to look casual, attractive, and suave. Unfortunately, I missed the wall.

Jimmy was kind enough to pretend not to notice. “You should try to sleep,” he rumbled. “The challenge you face tomorrow…” Worry lines creased his forehead. “I cannot imagine.”

Sleep seemed like an alien concept, especially now, with my heart chunk-chunk-chunking like a defective pedal boat. “Oh, I don’t sleep much. I used to be a god, you know.” I wondered if flexing my muscles would help prove this point. I decided it would not. “And you? Are you a demigod?”

Jimmy grunted. “An interesting word. I would say I am e·lo·mìíràn—one of the others. I am also a graduate accounting student at Indiana University.”

I had no idea what to do with that information. I could think of no topics of conversation that would make me look interesting to a graduate student of accounting. I also hadn’t realized how much older Jimmy was than me. I mean mortal Lester me, not god me. I was confused.

“But Sssssarah said you worked for Commodus?” I recalled. “You’re a gladiator?”

The edges of his mouth tugged downward. “Not a gladiator. I only fight on weekends for money. Mixed martial arts. Gidigbo and Dambe.”

“I don’t know what those are.”

He chuckled. “Most people don’t. They are Nigerian martial-art forms. The first, Gidigbo, is a wrestling style of my people, the Yoruba. The other is a Hausa sport, more violent, but I like it.”

“I see,” I said, though in fact I didn’t.

Even in ancient times, I had been woefully ignorant of anything below the Saharan Desert. We Olympians tended to stay in our own neighborhood around the Mediterranean, which was, I agree, terribly cliquish. “You fight for money?”

“To pay my tuition,” Jimmy agreed. “I did not know what I was getting into with this emperor person.”

“And yet you survived,” I noted. “You can see that the world is, uh, much stranger than most mortals realize. You, Jimmy, must have lots of ìgboyà.”

His laughter was deep and rich. “Very good. My name is actually Olujime. For most Americans, Jimmy is easier.”

I understood. I’d only been a mortal for a few months and I was getting very tired of spelling out Papadopoulos.

“Well, Olujime,” I said, “I’m pleased to meet you. We are lucky to have such a defender.”

“Mmm.” Olujime nodded gravely. “If we survive tomorrow, perhaps the Waystation can use an accountant. A piece of real estate so complex…there are many tax implications.”

“Uh—”

“I am joking,” he offered. “My girlfriend says I joke too much.”

“Uh.” This time I sounded like I’d been kicked in the gut. “Your girlfriend. Yes. Will you excuse me?”

I fled.

Stupid Apollo. Of course Olujime had a girlfriend. I didn’t know who or what he was, or why fate had dragged him into our strange little world, but obviously someone so interesting would not be single. Besides, he was much too old for me, or young, depending on how you looked at it. I decided not to look at it at all.

Exhausted but restless, I wandered the shifting corridors until I stumbled upon a small library. When I say library, I mean the old-fashioned kind without books, just scrolls stacked in cubbies. Ah, the smell of papyrus brought me back!

I sat at the table in the center of the room and remembered the chats I used to have in Alexandria with the philosopher Hypatia. Now she was a smart melomakarona. I wished she were here now. I could’ve used her advice on how to survive the Cave of Trophonius.

Alas, at present, my only advisor was stuck in the quiver on my back. Reluctantly, I pulled out the Arrow of Dodona and set it on the table.

The shaft of the arrow rattled against the table. LONG HAST THOU KEPT ME QUIVERED. VERILY, THY LEVELS OF STUPID ASTOUND ME.

“Have you ever wondered,” I asked, “why you have no friends?”

UNTRUE, said the arrow. EACH BRANCH OF DODONA’S SACRED GROVE, EACH TWIG AND ROOT—TO ALL OF THESE, I AM MOST DEAR.

I doubted that. More likely, when it had come time to choose a branch to carve into an arrow to send on a quest with me, the entire grove had unanimously elected this particularly annoying length of ash. Even sacred Oracles could only stand hearing forsooth and verily so many times.

“Then tell me,” I said, “O, Wise Arrow, most dear to all manner of trees, how do we get to the Cave of Trophonius? And how do Meg and I survive?”

The arrow’s fletching rippled. THOU SHALT TAKE A CAR.

“That’s it?”

LEAVEST THOU WELL BEFORE DAWN. ’TIS A COUNTER-COMMUTE, AYE, BUT THERE SHALL BE CONSTRUCTION ON HIGHWAY THIRTY-SEVEN. EXPECTEST THOU TO TRAVEL ONE HOUR AND FORTY-TWO MINUTES.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you somehow…checking Google Maps?”

A long pause. OF COURSE NOT. FIE UPON YOU. AS FOR HOW THOU SHALT SURVIVE, ASK ME THIS ANON, WHEN THOU REACHEST THY DESTINATION.

“Meaning you need time to research the Cave of Trophonius on Wikipedia?”

I SHALL SAY NO MORE TO YOU, BASE VILLAIN! THOU ART NOT WORTHY OF MY SAGE ADVICE!

“I’m not worthy?” I picked up the arrow and shook it. “You’re no help at all, you useless piece of—!”

“Apollo?” Calypso stood in the doorway.

Next to her, Leo grinned. “We didn’t realize you were arguing with your arrow. Should we come back later?”

I sighed. “No, come in.”

The two of them sat across from me. Calypso laced her fingers on the table like a teacher at a parent conference.

Leo did his best to impersonate someone capable of being serious. “So, uh, listen, Apollo—”

“I know,” I said miserably.

He blinked as if I’d thrown welding sparks in his eyes. “You do?”

“Assuming we live through tomorrow,” I said, “you two intend to remain at the Waystation.”

They both stared at the table. A little more weeping and pulling of hair might have been nice, some heartfelt sobs of Please forgive us! But I guessed that was more apology than Lester Papadopoulos deserved.

“How did you know?” Calypso asked.

“The serious conversations with our hosts?” I said. “The furtive glances?”

“Hey, man,” Leo said. “I’m not furtive. I’ve got zero furtivity.”

I turned to Calypso. “Josephine has a wonderful workshop for Leo. And she can teach you to regain your magic. Emmie has gardens worthy of your old home, Ogygia.”