Grover raised his face to the light. He sniffled, tears glistening on his cheeks. “Are you hurt?” I asked. He stared at me. The heartbreak on his face was more painful to look at than the sunlight. “The smell of warm strawberries,” he said. “Like Camp Half-Blood. It’s been so long….” I felt an unfamiliar twinge in my chest. I patted Grover’s knee. I had not spent much time at Camp Half-Blood, the training ground for Greek demigods on Long Island, but I understood how he felt.
