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We marched back to the play structure. Gary was gumming a Fruity Pebbles donut while Grover looked on in horror. The rainbow sprinkles around the god’s mouth somehow made him look even older.

“Ready to say your good-byes?” Gary asked me.

I shook my head. “No good-byes yet. Let’s confirm the rules of engagement. You and I wrestle one-on-one. You push my face to the ground, I lose, get turned to dust, et cetera. I force one of your knees to the pavement, you give me the chalice and leave us in peace. Either way, when this is over, my friends go free.”

“That is the deal,” Gary agreed. “Although, since you’re going to lose, most of those terms are... What’s the word?Moot.”

“You’re moot,” I grumbled, because I am deadly with those quick clap-backs.

“Or...” Grover said, “you could trade the chalice for these leftover donuts.” He flapped the lid of his box, wafting the scent of mochi toward the god. “Then we can all go our separate ways. I still have two more black sesame and a pistachio.”

Gary seemed to consider this. In my book, mochi donuts would be pretty close to magic chalices in any post-apocalypse barter system. I thought Grover might actually be onto something. He was about to make my life much easier and also longer.

Then Gary shook his head. “We’ll stick to the original arrangement.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “When do we start?”

I didn’t even have time to breathe. Suddenly Gary was on my back, his hands like steel clamps on my shoulders, his legs wrapped around my rib cage, his heels digging into me like I was an uncooperative horse. My knees buckled. The guy weighed a ton. I threw out my hands and broke my fall, my face only inches from the asphalt.

His sour breath made my head swim. He said in my ear, “Oh, we can start whenever you like.”

Iyearned for the good old days when I’d had to fight one-on-one with the war god Ares—whaling on me with his massive sword/baseball bat, unleashing giant wild boars to trample me, glaring at me with his nuclear eyes.

Yes, those were simpler times.

Now I was locked in a wrestle-to-the-death contest with Gary the diapered god of halitosis.

And I was losing.

I tried to push against him, to force myself upright. It was like pushing against the roof of a tunnel. I twisted sideways, using his own weight to sling him off my back. I crawled away, gasping for breath, and barely had time to get to my feet before he slammed into me again, wrapping his arm around my neck. He pulled me into a side headlock, forcing my face dangerously close to his armpit. I really wished I hadn’t taken those menthol tissues out of my nostrils.

“Oh, no,” Gary cackled. “You can’t run from Old Age.”

“Technically not true!” Grover shouted. “Exercises like running can add years to your life!”

Gary snarled, “Quiet, satyr. No interference!”

“It’s not interference,” Annabeth chimed in. “It’s commentary! Every wrestling match has commentary.”

Their distraction bought me a few seconds, which I’d like to say I used to formulate a master plan. Instead, my thought process was:Oh gods I’m going to die help ow armpit armpit.

This falls short of the criteria formaster plan.

I tried to shuffle sideways. Gary held me fast. I pushed forward with all my weight. I leaned back, hoping to pull him off-balance. Even though the guy was half my size, he didn’t budge.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

With his free hand, he punched me in the ribs. The sound that came out of my throat would have alerted any walruses within a two-mile radius that I was looking for companionship.

“Flag on the play!” Grover yelled. “Ten-yard penalty!”

“No body blows!” Annabeth agreed. “That’s not wrestling!”

“Shut up!” Gary complained.

While his attention was divided, I managed to twist out of his headlock. I wrapped my arms around his chest and squeezed with all my might. I tugged and pushed, but I just couldn’t budge the guy.

He laughed. “Having fun?”