Lams At Camp Half-Blood

Chapter One

Alexander's PoV

I look through the window of my room in Manhattan, New York. Sighing, I wish something interesting would happen for once. It's the middle of January, and I'm completely bored.

I decide to pull out my laptop. I've already finished the essay due in two weeks, but what harm could it do to write a couple of extra pages?

My cell phone rings. I pick it up, seeing that my best friend, George, is calling me.

"What do you want from me?" I say after swiping right to answer the phone. Yes, that is what I always say when I pick up.

"Alex, listen, there's-" My connection cuts out. Damn these stupid cell phones! For about the past year, I had had trouble with calling or texting anybody.

"George," I say. "My connection is bad. Can you come over and tell me what you have to say when you're here?"

I hear a sigh in the other end. "Fine," he says, right before hanging up.

~3 minutes later~

I hear a knock at the door and go to open it.

There stands George, looking quite winded.

"I was... Across town... Ran all the way here," he says, gasping for air.

"George," I say. "You realize that we're in New York and there's such thing as a taxi?"

"I don't have money on me..."

"Fine, whatever. Come in, I guess."

"Where's your cousin?" Asks George, stepping into the house. In case you were wondering (you nosy human being), my dad left when I was ten, and my mom 4 years ago, when I was twelve, so my cousin Peter took my brother and me in.

"He went out. Didn't tell me where."

"Is your brother in the house?"

"Geez, why are you so full of questions all of the sudden? He's out with friends, like a normal 15-year-old," I grumble, exasperated with all of the sudden questions George was bombarding me with.

"Okay, good. Get your important things; we're leaving."

"What?" I squeak, quite literally, as my voice decides to crack right at that moment.

"Yeah. The minotaur is back and on the loose, and I need to get you to safety."

"Where are we going? You do realize there's an essay due soon?"

George sighs. "I'll explain on the way."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. You can drive?" I ask. I thought George was my age, 16.

"Duh. I'm actually 32 years old. Satyrs mature twice as slow as humans."

"Why didn't you just drive to my house, then?"

"I don't have a car."

"So what, are you planning to hijack one or something?"

"Yes," he says, walking out the door.