The Tyrant's Tomb

“Oh! Oh!” Tyson raised his hand. His mouth was coated in cupcake
frosting. “I would take a rocket ship!”
I stared at him. “Do you have a rocket ship?”
His expression deflated. “No.”
I looked out the bookstore’s picture windows. In the distance, the sun
rose over Mount Diablo. Our journey of thousands of miles could not begin
with a rocket ship, so we’d have to find another way. Horses? Eagles? A
self-driving car that was programmed not to fly off highway overpasses?
We’d have to trust in the gods for some good luck. (Insert HA-HA-HA-HA-
HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA here.) And maybe, if we were very fortunate, we
could at least call on our old friends at Camp Half-Blood once we returned
to New York. That thought gave me courage.
“Come on, Meg,” I said. “We’ve got a lot of miles to cover. We need to
find a new ride.”