The arrow fell silent. I wanted to know more. I knew there was more. But the arrow had signaled that it was done talking, and for once, I thought I should consider what it wanted.

I returned it to the quiver and began my hike back to the cabins.

Perhaps I was overreacting. Just because my life was doom and gloom did not necessarily mean the arrow was doomed, too.

Maybe it was just being evasive because, at the end of my journeys, whether I died or not, it was planning to pitch my life story to one of the Muses’ new streaming services. I would be remembered only as a limited series on Calliope+.

Yes, that was probably it. What a relief…

I was almost to the edge of the forest when I heard laughter—the laughter of dryads, I deduced, based on my centuries of experience as a dryad stalker. I followed the sound to a nearby outcropping of rocks, where Meg McCaffrey and Peaches were hanging out with half a dozen tree spirits.

The dryads were fawning over the fruit spirit, who, being no fool, was doing his best to look adorable for the ladies—which meant not baring his fangs, growling, or showing his claws. He was also wearing a clean loincloth, which was more than he’d ever done around me.

“Oh, he’s precious!” said one of the dryads, ruffling Peaches’s leafy green hair.

“These little toes!” said another, giving him a foot massage.

The karpos purred and fluttered his branchy wings. The dryads did not seem to mind that he looked like a killer baby grown from a chia kit.

Meg tickled his belly. “Yeah, he’s pretty awesome. I found him—”

That’s when the dryads saw me.

“Gotta go,” said one, disappearing in a whirl of leaves.

“Yeah, I have this…thing,” said another, and poofed into pollen.

The other dryads followed suit, until it was only Meg, Peaches, me, and the lingering scent of Dryadique™ biodegradable shampoo.

Peaches growled at me. “Peaches.”

Which no doubt meant Dude, you scared off my groupies.

“Sorry. I was just…” I waved my hand. “Passing by? Wandering around, waiting to die? I’m not sure.”

“S’okay,” Meg said. “Pull up a rock.”

Peaches snarled, perhaps doubting my willingness to massage his feet.

Meg pacified him by scratching behind his ear, which reduced him to a purring puddle of bliss.

It felt good to sit, even on a jagged chunk of quartz. The sunshine was pleasant without being too warm. (Yes, I used to be a sun god. Now I am a temperature wimp.)

Meg was dressed in her Sally Jackson Valentine’s Day outfit. The pink dress had been washed since our arrival, thank goodness, but the knees of her white leggings were newly stained from her morning digging in the squash garden. Her glasses had been cleaned. The rhinestone-studded rims glittered, and I could actually see her eyes through the lenses. Her hair had been shampooed and corralled with red hair clips. I suspected somebody in the Demeter cabin had given her some loving care in the grooming department.

Not that I could criticize. I was wearing clothes Will Solace had bought for me.

“Good gardening?” I asked.

“Awesome.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “This new kid, Steve? He made a potato erupt in Douglas’s pants.”

“That does sound awesome.”

“Wish we could stay.” She tossed a chip of quartz into the grass.

My heart felt like an open blister. Thinking about the horrible things that awaited us back in Manhattan, I wanted to grant Meg’s wish more than anything. She should have been able to stay at camp, laughing and making friends and watching potatoes erupt from her cabinmates’ pants like any normal kid.

I marveled at how calm and content she appeared. I’d heard that young people were especially resilient when it came to surviving trauma. They were much tougher than, say, your average immortal. And yet, just for once, I wished I could provide Meg with a safe place to be, without the pressure of having to leave immediately to stop an apocalypse.

“I could go alone,” I found myself saying. “I could surrender to Nero. There’s no reason you have to—”

“Stop,” she ordered.

My throat closed up.

I could do nothing but wait as Meg twirled a blade of grass between her fingers.

“You say that because you don’t trust me?” she asked at last.

“What?” Her question allowed me to speak again. “Meg, no, that’s not—”

“I betrayed you once,” she said. “Right here in these woods.”

She didn’t sound sad or ashamed about it, the way she once might have. She spoke with a sort of dreamy disbelief, as if trying to recall the person she’d been six months ago. That was a problem I could relate to.

“Meg, we’ve both changed a lot since then,” I said. “I trust you with my life. I’m just worried about Nero…how he’ll try to hurt you, use you.”

She gave me a look that was almost teacherly, as if cautioning Are you sure that’s your final answer?

I realized what she must be thinking: I claimed I wasn’t worried about her betraying me, but I was worried about how Nero could manipulate her. Wasn’t that the same thing?

“I have to go back,” Meg insisted. “I have to see if I’m strong enough.”

Peaches cuddled up next to her as if he had no such concerns.

Meg patted his leafy wings. “Maybe I’ve gotten stronger. But when I go back to the palace, will it be enough? Can I remember to be who I am now and not…who I was then?”

I didn’t think she expected an answer. But it occurred to me that perhaps I should be asking myself the same question.

Since Jason Grace’s death, I’d spent sleepless nights wondering if I could keep my promise to him. Assuming I made it back to Mount Olympus, could I remember what it was like to be human, or would I slip back into being the self-centered god I used to be?

Change is a fragile thing. It requires time and distance. Survivors of abuse, like Meg, have to get away from their abusers. Going back to that toxic environment was the worst thing she could do. And former arrogant gods like me couldn’t hang around other arrogant gods and expect to stay unsullied.

But I supposed Meg was right. Going back was the only way to see how strong we’d gotten, even if it meant risking everything.

“Okay, I’m worried,” I admitted. “About you. And me. I don’t know the answer to your question.”

Meg nodded. “But we have to try.”

“Together, then,” I said. “One more time, into the lair of the Beast.”

“Peaches,” Peaches murmured.

Meg smirked. “He says he’ll stay here at camp. He needs some me time.”

I hate it when fruit spirits have more sense than me.

That afternoon I filled two quivers with arrows. I polished and restrung my bow. From the cabin’s store of musical instruments, I picked a new ukulele—not as nice or durable as the bronze combat ukulele I had lost, but still a fearsome stringed instrument. I made sure I had plenty of medical supplies in my backpack, along with food and drink and the usual change of clothes and clean underwear. (I apologize, underwear!)

I moved through the afternoon hours in a daze, feeling as if I were preparing for a funeral…specifically my own. Austin and Kayla hovered nearby, trying to be helpful when they could, but without invading my space.