•Chapter 3•

Hey! Happy Singles Awareness Day—ahem, I mean, Valentine's Day.

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2010

As I watched Piper casually lean into her boyfriend while the three of us were watching Star Wars reruns, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. My friend (and cousin) was lucky to have found such a girl. They were truly compatible for each other; there was no doubt.

Jason caught me staring at him and his girlfriend. Smirking, he told me, "Take a picture, Perce. It lasts longer."

I turned my head away. "I wasn't staring," I lied.

"Sure you weren't. Then why were you staring at us? Was a giant slug behind us or something?"

Piper smacked his arm. "Jason!" she scolded him. "Don't tease him." Turning to me, she said, "Seriously, Perce, you don't have to lie. It's alright."

I crossed my arms, refusing to give in.

"Percy …"

"Okay, fine!" I snapped crossly. I softened my tone and lowered my voice. "Fine, yeah, I was staring, okay? I'm just jealous how you guys fit together so well, like strawberries and chocolate, or bananas and fishy crackers, or—"

Piper interrupted me. "Ew. That's gross," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Perseus Jackson, please tell me you didn't mean that when you said that bananas and fishy crackers went well together."

"I was serious!" I protested. Piper's mouth dropped open. You've got to be kidding me, her eyes read. I fiddled with my hands before continuing. "Um, okay, then. But as I was saying—"

The daughter of the infamous movie star interrupted me again. "It's okay. We get it. You'll find your One, Perce. Whether it's next week or five years from now, you'll find her." She waved her hands around for emphasis. "I don't think that it's set in stone, that it's only one person who is made for you."

I must've looked confused, because Jason jumped in. "What she means, Perce, is don't lose hope. You'll find her one day. But," he added with a smirk, "you really gotta stop staring at us."

Rolling my eyes, I chucked the empty pop can at my cousin, nailing him in the shoulder.

I arrived at room 127—English class, breathing heavily.

Mrs. Leer looked at me disapprovingly. "Mr. Jackson, the tardy bell rang ten minutes ago. You're late." The word "again" hung in the air, unspoken. She proceeded to glare at me. "Why were you late? Where's your late slip?"

"Sorry," I mumbled. Her glare intensified. Louder, I said, "Sorry, Mrs. Leer. There was a major traffic jam on the way to school." Meekly, I added, "And, I, uh, maybe woke up sort of late?"

She shook her head. Why am I not surprised?, her expression seemed to say. "Your late slip?" was all she said out loud, instead. I handed her the pink piece of paper and headed down the aisle to sit down in my seat. "Oh, and Mr. Jackson," she added, placing a sealed envelope on the edge of her desk, "here is your penpal's letter."

I turned around, retrieved the letter, and continued my way to the empty seat in the classroom. Tearing open the crisp, white envelope, I pulled out the lined sheet of paper filled with Annabeth's neat writing.

Dear Percy,

I'm seriously facepalming right now. You think that Mrs. Kerr would blackmail her daughter (I don't think she has any sons) to make her powerpoint? She's one of the sweetest ladies out there. She wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone hold a knife to her daughter's throat and demand for her to make the slides. (And no, I'm not just writing this so Mrs. Kerr won't get mad at me when she reads this; I actually mean it.)

Jackson, have you ever babysat or looked after two ultra-energetic kids? It's exhausting. Imagine looking after a sugar-high six-year-old kid. Now multiply it by two. Yeah, even if Matt and Bobby are twelve years old, they are a handful. Percy, did you actually use "ain't"? Judging by your two previous letters, you didn't seem like the type of person to use those type of words.

Seriously? "Bet you'd faint if you saw me, or swoon or something." Cocky much?

Sincerely,

Annabeth Chase

I laughed when I read her last sentence. "Well today's your lucky day," I murmured to myself, amused. Mrs. Leer had announced in the middle of class that today would be the day where we'd send our penpals pictures of ourselves. Pictures she chose, our teacher emphasized. She basically meant that she was controlling our photo choices so it wouldn't be inappropriate or weird. However, she did say that we'd have a choice between three photos, in which we'd have to choose one.

Now that I was thinking about it, how did she get ahold of our pictures? We only had school photos taken last week. The photos couldn't have developed so quickly and mailed to the school. I shrugged it off, thinking that she probably got our photos from last year's shot.

Dear Annabeth,

Well, anything could happen, right? There were a lot of serial killers who were really nice and stuff, and when they were arrested for killing a dozens of people, everyone was really shocked. That guy, Ned Bunny or whatever his name is, was one of them. Don't remember much about what he did outside of his killing spree, but I think he was some active person in his community of something.

Nope. Tyson's pretty quiet, and he was the only person I usually looked after. My mom says that I would probably cause more of a mess than the kids I would be sitting for. I think she's right—it's the ADHD in me. I think.

Yeah, I used that word. Why so surprised?

Don't believe me? Coincidentally, Mrs. Leer said that today is the day where we send pictures of ourselves to our penpals. Then you'll see that I'm not joking. Or being too cocky.

That awesomely handsome dude you're writing to,

Percy Jackson

2015

"Hi." I approach the receptionist. "I'm Percy Jackson." I actually am not quite sure whether or not most of the staff here in the infirmary speak English. I sure hope they do … I'm not fluent in any other languages.

"Yes?" she asks me. "How many I help you today?" Though her English is quite good, she has an accent that punctuates her words, making it hard to decipher.

"Um …" I pause for a moment. "I'd like to transfer Ms. Annabeth Chase to a hospital in the United States of America."

"In what relation are you to Ms. Chase?"

"Her fiancé," I answer. "Her family is currently in the United States of America, so they cannot sign the required papers. Mr. and Mrs. Chase have given me consent to represent them."

"Okay. I see." She types something into the computer, and, without looking up at me, asks, "Your ID card, bank card, and another piece of identification?"

I hand both my ID and bank card, along with my passport, to her, and she goes back to typing away on her keyboard.

She finally looks back up at me. "Alright." She leaves her chair to rummage through a nearby cabinet. "Here," she says, handing me a thick stack of paper. My eyes widen at the sea of letters on the first page.

"Um, Ms. …" I look at her nametag. "White?" She murmurs a "mhm?" and I quietly explain that I have moderate dyslexia, and that I'd be grateful if she could summarize the information of the package.

She agrees. "Alright." She flips through the pages, thoroughly explaining the risks, cost, and all that. In the middle of her explanation for one of the sections, and she stops and asks me, "I assume you talked to another doctor about this beforehand?"

"Yes," I reply. "Doctor Solace."

"Okay, good. The rest of the information are things he already covered when you were discussing this with him. So, all you have to do now, is sign here, here, and here"—she points to each of the blanks at the bottom of three separate pieces of paper using the tip of her pen—"and the infirmary will deal with the rest." She hands me another pen and I sign in the appropriate spaces. "Excellent," the dark-haired lady says. "The infirmary will verify all the information, as well as the desired hospital that you and Ms. Chase's family would like to transfer her to. If all goes according to plan and if there are no difficulties, she should be prepped and ready for transfer by next week."

The ride isn't eventful, but at least it's quiet, so I can have time to think. The driver in front, thankfully, doesn't make any small talk, and, neither does the guy sitting in front of me and the woman beside me. There's a suffocating silence, but it's for the best—we all know that. There're many risks, driving in the suburbs of this country. Lots of protesters, bombers, and attackers are hidden in the bushes and trees here. Many people love nothing more than a riot, or a scene. We just might give them one if we're not careful, and fall into the hands of the enemy.

We pass stretch after stretch of trees. Soon, the dirt-yellow path transforms into a slightly rocky lane, then into a brick-layered road, and, finally, a smooth grey highway. We're back in the city.

I long to close my eyes, to rest, but I can't. One thing I learned after all my years of training and serving, is that even when you think you're safe, you're not. Don't close your eyes unless you're absolutely certain. And there is no way that anywhere in this place is safe. This country has been so war-torn and hazard-filled that it's pretty much impossible to state anywhere is safe.

The driver turns off the highway, and directs his slightly rusty Honda to the right, where a marker states in bold letters: INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, 2KM RIGHT.

He pulls up in front of the large doors of the airport. "I … you … leave here," he tells us, his broken English punctuated by his strong accent. The driver unlocks the doors to the vehicle, gets out, and walks to the back of the car. The three of us throw open the car door, exit the black Honda, and profusely thank him in English. He nods, his eyes smiling, and places our three duffel bags in the arms of the woman beside me. The man shrugs apologetically, as if saying, Sorry, but I can't read your names. She quietly hands us our duffel bags, and he starts to get in his car. The man and the woman simultaneously turn and disappear into the thick crowd in opposite directions. Suddenly, an alarming thought comes to me.

"Wait!" I cry, sounding a little panicked.

The middle-aged man freezes in his steps and turns towards me. He nods, telling me to go on.

"Do we have to pay?"

"Pay?" he repeats, walking closer to me. "No, no. Lady pay already." He gestures with his hands. "Tall black"—he tugs his hair—"and, um, high. Very, very, very high." He sticks his hand in the air around 5 inches above his head. Oh. He must mean the General. I watch as he heads into the driver's side of the car once more, and shuts the door.

Suddenly, on impulse, I blurt out a "thank you" in the native language of this country. He looks at me through the passenger side's window, eyes wide. I tack on a "goodbye" in his native tongue again. Annabeth taught me the basics of this language when we first came here to serve. Despite my protesting, she said that it was never a harm to know the basics, even if I had—well, I still have one—a terrible accent that caused my fiancée to laugh when I butchered the words terribly.

He responds in the same language, and I turn and melt in the crowd. When I look back, the black car is already gone, and a silver one is in its place. I square my shoulders, fiddling with the bottom of the navy blue t-shirt I was given before I left with the driver and the two others. Tightening my grip on my duffel bag, I march to the check-in queue.

Next stop: San Francisco, California, United States of America.

By the way, I won't be revealing the country that Percy was serving in. I just don't feel comfortable. Hope you guys don't mind :)

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-K