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“Oh, right,” Sparky said. “You three. Okay, then, have a good time.”

“Wait!” Grover said. “We need to see Hebe again!”

Sparky arched her eyebrows. “What, you want to be evenyounger? When Hebe blesses you, you shouldn’t get greedy. I’m sixty-five myself. It took me months of working here to get this young again!”

Of course. Sparky was another boomer—just a nine-year-old boomer.

“We don’t want to get any younger,” I said. “We want Hebe to put us back the way we were.”

Sparky scowled. “Hold on.... Are you lodging anage-basedcomplaint?”

I didn’t like the way this manager kid/boomer was looking at me, like she was going to bury me in two-for-one pizza coupons. “Well, it’s just... I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We’d like—”

“You’d like to complain.” Sparky pulled a bullhorn off her belt and announced to the entire arcade, “We have an age-based complaint!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, hoots, and jeers. Many of them grinned at us in a malicious way, like they expected a good show.

“Um...” I said.

“Unleash the predators!” Sparky screamed. “Let the chase begin!”

Bells clanged. Money changed hands. A few customers speculated as to who would fall first: me, Annabeth, or Grover. It didn’t look like the odds were in my favor.

My pulse pounded, but scanning the room, I couldn’t see any bloodthirsty predators.

“We just want to talk to Hebe!” I insisted.

Sparky pointed her megaphone right in my face and nearly blasted my eyebrows off.

“Maybe you will, if you survive the race. Have fun!” She lowered her bullhorn and strolled off.

In the depths of the arcade, someone screamed. A chair went flying. A pinball machine toppled over.

Annabeth drew her knife, which looked bigger in her small hand.

Grover yelped. “Here they come! I can smell them!”

“Smell what?” I demanded. “I don’t see—”

Then I did. The chickens from the henhouse were rampaging through the arcade. Normally, I wouldn’t use the wordrampageto describe poultry behavior, but these birds were pure feathered chaos. Dozens swarmed over the game cabinets and knocked over furniture, ripping the upholstery with their claws and beaks. Some flew over the heads of the customers, strafing their hairdos. Others snapped hot dogs out of people’s hands.

The Hebe Jeebies patrons didn’t seem to mind. They squealed in delight as they ran from the hen-pocalypse like those crowds at bull-running events in Spain, as if they were thinking,These animals might kill me, but at least I’ll die in a really cool way!

The hens headed straight toward us, violence in their beady little eyes.

I pulled out my ballpoint pen. “These chickens want trouble? I’ll give them trouble.”

Which was probably my worst heroic line ever.

Even more embarrassing—when I uncapped Riptide, it remained a ballpoint pen. No sword sprang into my hands.

“What the... Why?” I screamed at the pen, which didn’t help with my whole unheroic vibe.

“Maybe it doesn’t work for kids,” Grover suggested. “You’re too young now.”

“You mean my sword has achildproof cap?”

“Hey, guys?” Annabeth said, sheathing her knife. “Argue later. Right now, I have a different plan: RUN!”