Sherman frowned. “Car accidents happen all the time, Nyssa.”

“Yeah, but listen to this: the guy who hit them claims he never saw the car coming. After the crash, parts salvaged from the Spyder were installed in other cars—and those cars were in horrible accidents. The wreck itself toppled from a truck bed and crushed a man’s leg. A pair of thieves suffered freak injuries while trying to steal the steering wheel and seat covers. A garage housing the Spyder’s remains caught fire—but the car itself was untouched. Need I go on?”

“Where’s the car now?” Sherman asked.

“It vanished in 1959. No mortal knows where it is.”

“Hang on,” Butch said. “No mortal?”

I gazed toward the western hills. “It’s in Bunker Nine. I think my dad hid it there. Or maybe Heloise did, to prevent the curse from hurting any more people.” I looked at them. “Or to keep it as a trophy of her success.”

So that’s the story. Maybe the curse on number 130 has faded. You want to touch that wreck in the shadows and find out, be my guest. Me, I’m steering clear.

SCENE: The set of a game show. Three campers sit behind a table with dinger bells in front of them. Apollo stands behind a podium. He’s dressed as a cheesy game show host—open shirt, bright gold lamé jacket, skinny black pants.

APOLLO: Welcome to our first annual Camp Half-Blood quiz show! Please give a warm welcome to our contestants. From Athena cabin…Bea Wise! [applause] From Ares cabin…Arnold Beefcake! [applause] And representing our cloven-hoofed friends…Ferdinand Underwood the satyr! [hoof stomps] Contestants, you know the rules. I ask a question. If you know the answer, ding your bell. Are you ready?

WISE [tapping temple]: I think, therefore I am.

BEEFCAKE [flexing]: Do your worst!

UNDERWOOD: Um, I ate my bell.

APOLLO: Excellent! Then let’s begin. First question: Name the serpent I slayed.

[Ding-ding!]

APOLLO: Wise?

WISE: That’s not a question.

APOLLO: Sorry, “That’s not a question” is incorrect.

WISE: No, wait, I meant—

[Ding-ding!]

BEEFCAKE: The serpent was Python!

APOLLO: Correct!

BEEFCAKE [showing two thumbs-up]: Ayyyyy!

APOLLO: Next question—

UNDERWOOD: So, should I just say ding-ding if I know the answer or—?

APOLLO: Who falsely accused me of flaying him alive after a music contest?

UNDERWOOD: Blaa-blaa!

APOLLO: I’m sorry, “blaa-blaa!” is incorrect. Also, you didn’t ring in. The correct answer is Marsyas the satyr.

WISE: Hang on! I knew that! You didn’t give me a chance to answer!

APOLLO: He thought he was so great on those stupid twin pipes, but I showed him.

BEEFCAKE: Yeah, you did!

WISE: I thought you were falsely accused.

UNDERWOOD: Blaa-blaa!

APOLLO: Final question: Do you know what time it is?

[Ding-ding!]

WISE [checks sun’s location]: Two twen—

APOLLO: It’s dancing time! [rips off jacket and shirt and starts Hula-Hooping] Hit it, boys!

[Satyrs enter flailing ribbon sticks and tootling on reed pipes, and cavort about the sun god]

BEEFCAKE: Oh, yeah! [rips off shirt, twirls it in the air] Now it’s a party!

WISE [rubbing temples]: I can’t believe I studied for this.

FERDINAND: Ding-ding?

Scouting around for a place of natural beauty for your next meeting? Consider reserving this idyllic, out-of-the-way clearing! Majestic old-growth trees surround a blanket of soft grass. Leaves rustle in the gentle breezes wafting in from the nearby shore. It’s a short hike north of the pegasus stables but worth every step. Iris-message ahead and the forest dryads will arrange for snacks and drinks.

Note: Special permission needed to use the rosebush topiary thrones.

I was honored when Percy Jackson asked me to tell you about the survival-skills class I teach. Honored but puzzled, because I teach Reed Pipe Music Composition and Appreciation, not Survival 101.

So I sent paper-airplane letters to two satyrs who’d taught the class before, Grover Underwood and Gleeson Hedge, to ask for their advice. Here are their replies:

[Sent on a slightly chewed brown paper bag]

Dear Woodrow,

California is dry. Thanks for asking.

I used the KISS approach—Keep It Simple, Satyr—when I taught the class, because so many students were ADHD. Here, in a nutshell, is my lesson plan. (If you don’t have a nutcracker, you can probably borrow one from the dining pavilion dryads.)

Step one: Scan your surroundings for immediate threats. Examples: Fast-approaching monsters with claws deployed and fangs dripping venom; cavernous pits rimmed with rotten banana peels; clowns (both happy- and sad-faced).

Step two: Take inventory. Helpful items to look for: Water. Food. Fire. More food.

Step three: Stay put and wait for rescue. Note: This last step only works if others are looking for you.

Hope this helps!

Wildly yours,

Grover

[Written on the back of a crayon drawing of a daddy satyr, a mommy wind nymph, and a tiny baby kid]

Woodrow,

Surviving is all about beating the odds. Also the evens. Those evens can be sneaky, so don’t take your eyes off them!

As for the beating, you can’t go wrong with a sturdy length of wood. Ash is best—strong, lightweight, makes an excellent crack sound when it connects with its target. Stay away from pine. Smells nice, but too sticky. And you never know who might be living inside it.

If you don’t have a club handy, try a hoof-kick to the solar plexus, a horn-stab to the throat, and a rump-butt to the gut. Boo-ya!

Coach

I appreciated this sage advice but decided to seek my own technique for survival training. So I did what I often do when contemplating a challenge: I looked to the stars for guidance. That’s when it hit me—I could teach demigods to look to the stars for guidance!

Constellations are awesome orientation and navigation tools. They have great historic significance, too, since they’re made up of beings and people placed in the heavens by the Greek gods. So it was a win-win concept.

Here’s a little taste of my proposed lesson plan:

WHATEVER, MOTHER (OR THE W-M-SHAPED CONSTELLATION)

Cassiopeia, queen of Ethiopia, bragged that she and her daughter, Andromeda, were more beautiful than Poseidon’s girls, the Nereids.

“Gods, Mother, embarrass me much?” groaned Andromeda.

The Nereids complained to their dad. As punishment for Cassiopeia’s boast, Poseidon sent Cetus the sea monster to wreak havoc on Ethiopia. The only way to end the reign of terror was to sacrifice Andromeda to the beast.

Naturally, Cassiopeia didn’t tell her daughter that. Instead, she lured Andromeda to the coast with promises of a lovely spa day by the sea. Once there, she chained her to a rock within easy snacking distance of Cetus.

“Mo-ther!” Andromeda was heard to complain over the pounding of the waves. “These chains clash with my outfit! The salt spray is making my hair frizz! And when is my masseuse getting here?”

“Here he comes now!” Cassiopeia called back as Cetus reared out of the surf and charged the princess. (Note: Grover would have identified Cetus as an “immediate threat.”)