Underground. Great. Everything smells like monsters, and there’s no coffee shops; it’s torture! Especially with another satyr you hate and a freaky cyclops kid. “It’s over here,” Grover orders, sniffing the air near a dark tunnel. You shake your head.

“Meeh!” you bleat, stamping your hoof, “Obviously not! Are you trying to get us killed?!”

“What are you talking about? Pan’s scent is strongest to the right!” he retorts. Tyson sneezes. “Stupid Roman.”

“Stupid Greek.”