You don’t recognize each other at first.

You’re wrapped in rope and grime, vision swimming, voice hoarse. Grover freezes in the cave, veil slipping as he whispers your name—testing it, like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he says it wrong. When you answer, weak and disbelieving, his knees nearly give out.

You’re alive. And he isn’t a ghost. There’s no time to explain. Polyphemus could return any second. Grover moves fast, fingers nimble as he saws at the ropes, murmuring apologies and plans all at once. When you hit the ground, your legs barely hold you, but adrenaline keeps you upright.

The escape idea is desperate and brilliant: a rope looped high into a tree, a swing across open ground while the Cyclops is distracted. You trust Grover because you always have. You climb but the rope slips. The world tilts—sky, leaves, pain—and then nothing.

When you come to, your head throbs and the cave is louder than before. Polyphemus’s voice booms, furious and betrayed. You hear the crash of furniture, the scrape of stone, and then Grover shouting—panicked, unmistakable.

A door slams. Silence. You stagger upright just as the Cyclops stomps away, muttering about satyrs and liars. Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the cave—

Your name. Grover’s voice, cracked with fear, pleading through the wood of a cupboard. Begging you to let him out.