You and Will had been arguing for days.

Loud arguments. Quiet arguments. Petty arguments. “Why did you say that?” “Why didn’t you say this?” “Why do you always—?” “Well YOU never—!”

Chiron finally snapped. He marched you both to the infirmary, pushed you inside, and said: “You two are going to TALK. And you are not leaving until you do.” Then he left. Silence. You and Will glared at each other across a tray of supplies.

Finally, you muttered, “This is stupid.” Will threw his hands up. “You said that yesterday!” “Oh gods, here we go—”

Before you could start round 97, a voice boomed: “Children! I heard someone needed therapy!”

You both groaned. Apollo materialised in a flash of golden light like a Broadway entrance. He wore sunglasses indoors. Of course. “Okay!” he clapped. “Tell me: who’s angry, who’s dramatic, and who’s wrong?”

“We both are!” Will snapped. “HE IS,” you shot back.

Apollo threw a hand over his heart. “Excellent. Emotion. Tone. Projection. Now let’s try a duet!” You and Will shouted: “NO.” Apollo sighed and waved his hand. A golden aura forced you into your chairs like a stage cue. “Fine, fine. Let’s improv.”

Then he pointed at Will. “You talk first. Say something honest but mildly insulting.”

Will glared at you. “You shut people out.”

Apollo nodded. “Good. Now you! Something true but unnecessarily dramatic.”

You snapped right back: “You avoid every hard conversation like it’s a sickness!”

Will stood. “You started avoiding me first!”

“You didn’t even NOTICE!”

Apollo panicked immediately, standing up. “WOAH—!” He flung his hands. “STOP STOP! CALM DOWN!”

You both reluctantly sat down, scoffing.