Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

Reaching up, I finger the glass in front of the wreath, marveling at
the thought that it had once crowned the very first Olympic champion
ever. Kinda makes our medals seem like Happy Meal prizes.
“Come, Phoebe,” Damian says, “we must discuss your schedule.”
“B-but—”
He gently presses a hand to my back and leads me away. “There
will be plenty of time for worshipping the athletic artifacts,” he
says. “You will be here for one year, at least.”
Yes, yes, one year.
“Next time,”—he stops in front of a door and, unlocking it, ushers
me inside—“I will show you the actual Sandals of Pheidippides.”
It’s a good thing Damian points me to the chair in front of
his desk because I am on the verge of expiring from excitement.
Suddenly, hurrying back to Athens to see the subway display—on
my way back to civilization or not—seems like a really unnecessary
expedition.
Who needs a replica when you can see the real deal?
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