Peter knew he was breaking the law when he stole a packet of gum from the convenience store. He didn't expect the one-eyed sales clerk to go all psycho on him and start trying to knock his skull in with a wooden tree branch.

"Peter Johnson, you come back here right now!" The thing spoke in his mother's voice. Peter stumbled. He knew the monster could imitate voices, because it had already tried mimicking his ex-girlfriend (who, strangely enough, had had one metal leg and one furry one,) as well as his best friend, Wes, who he'd left back in Madison.

But hearing his mother's voice again almost made him stop, even though it would mean certain death. Peter's mom had died two years ago, when the crazy giant pig had stampeded their small two-bedroom house. Peter's mom had put up with a lot of indignities in her life, from the angry letters from schools Peter had been kicked out of, to working a dead end job to pay his fancy private school tuitions. But being trampled by a crazy pig was the last straw. When she was gone, Peter had gone a little crazy. He'd taken a shard of glass from a broken window, leapt at the pig, and stabbed it in the eye.

After that, Peter didn't quite remember anything, but now; here he was, at his destination.

It didn't look like much. A lone pine tree stood on top of a hill. Peter didn't know why he was here, but the guy in the dream had told him to come here. For some reason, Peter had believed the guy, even though he was wearing spandex-running shorts (really? Spandex? Really. The guy was fit for a grown up, but still. Yuck.)

A roar brought Peter back to the present, and with a last burst of energy, he made it almost to the top of the hill. There, he saw with a start that a giant snake was coiled around the tree. Peter didn't have any weapons. He had been using a long wooden stick that he had found by the side of the road, as well as a pocketknife that was mostly good for opening cans of beans (which tasted terrible and gave him really bad gas, as it happened.)

The snake made no move to attack, but maybe once the crazy, one-eyed salesperson monster gat there, the snake would feel inspired to crush twelve-year-old kids, as well.

"Hey! You," a voice called.

A boy, about sixteen years old, stood at the top of the hill. He had black hair and green eyes and wore an orange T-shirt. In his hand, he held a glowing bronze sword. The guy looked totally fierce, but Peter didn't know if the sword was for him or for the monsters.

"What do you want?"

"Get over here. The border's just here. You'll be safe. I'll deal with the Cyclops."

Peter didn't trust that. He hadn't known safe since he'd been on the run—two years. But if he got killed that night, it didn't matter much, anyways, because he had nowhere to go if his dream had been wrong.

Scrambling, Peter ran up the hill and watched the older boy charge down the hill and slash at the Cyclops. The guy was a ninja. Every time the monster tried to whack him, the boy rolled out of the way. Peter felt a little lame, letting this guy fight his fight for him, but he wasn't complaining when the big guy dissolved.

That was another thing. Whenever one of the monsters found Peter, he ran away. Sometimes, he had to fight it, like he did with the giant pig. But every time he did, instead of dying like a normal creature, the monsters disintegrated into ash.

The older boy walked up the hill, still covered in monster dust.

"Hi. I'm Percy Jackson. Welcome to Camp Half-blood."

"Camp Who-what?"

The guy laughed. "I'll let Chiron explain. He's our activities director."

Chiron turned out to be a middle-aged guy in a wheelchair. Peter didn't see how many camp activities he could lead if he couldn't even run, much less climb the climbing wall that they'd passed or canoe in the lake he'd seen from the hill.

The place seemed to be some sort of summer camp. Chiron and this other guy—a fat, terribly-dressed dude called Mr. D, explained that the Greek Gods were real, that Mr. D. was one of them, and that Peter's dad was one, too.

None of this really surprised Peter. He'd seen too much, and he knew something was going on. The Greek Gods were still alive? Made sense to him. What did surprise him was when Chiron stood up, and a horse stood up with him. Peter had to sit down when he realized the middle-aged guy was a centaur.

Mr. D., the diet-coke-drinking god of wine (Peter assumed this made sense somewhere,) said, "Peter Johnson, you may go now."

Peter stood up. "Where should I go?"

"Sir," the sixteen year old muttered.

"Sir."

The Hawaiian-shirt-god gave him a pitying look. "Not you, Percy Jackson. I was talking to Peter Johnson over here."

The older boy groaned.

"Al right Mr. D., very funny. You'd think that after six years you'd get my name straight, especially now that you know that there's really a Peter Johnson here."

"Just go away. We have important matters to discuss with Mr. Percy Jackson here."

"What? I'm not Percy Jackson. I'm Peter Johnson," Peter objected.

"Mr. D often confuses the names of campers," Chiron explained, butting delicate stress on the word 'confuses'.

"Confuses on purpose," the sixteen year old added.

"So what's your real name?"

"Percy Jackson."

"That's what I said. Get out, Percy."

"Who?"