"Sweetheart?"

Sally pushed open the door to Percy's bedroom. The bed was unmade; laundry and school books piled up on the floor. It had a stale energy, like nothing had changed in weeks. It was also empty.

Sally lingered a moment, then picked up a t-shirt from the floor. She folded it slowly and placed it on the bed, smoothing her hand over the wrinkled orange fabric, pausing at a hole in the collar. He didn't seem to have a thing from that place that hadn't been through the wringer.

The setting sun was slanting through the blinds, striping the room in orange. She picked up a textbook next, placing it on the desk. It was history, heavier than a brick. Her mind went back to long hours with easy-reader booklets; the worksheets and programs and teacher's disparaging notes. The times Percy would throw his material against the wall, or tear it in half, or erupt that it was stupid and the teachers were stupid and everything—reading, school, and the world—was stupid.

She squeezed the dense history book, looking over the other texts and study guides. Was he really using them? They were scattered pell-mell, more than one left open, facedown, or kicked under the desk, an air of forgottenness. She should know how he was getting along. She should have checked in more.

And where was he?

Sally looked around the room, a distant swell in her throat. Amidst all the parenting guidance on raising a teenager, with the changes and challenges it brought, they warned of drug abuse and secrecy and building self-esteem, but there was one thing they'd failed to say: that it could feel like the loneliest thing in the world.

She swallowed, closing her eyes as she heard the front door open, and Paul get in from work. She breathed deeply, and for a moment she was standing on a beach, and a little boy with wind-blown hair was running full-blast to hug her legs, his fists full of seashells and wet sand.

"Sally?"

Paul stood in the doorway, watching her. Startled, she looked down; she was holding Percy's hoodie, the one he'd left behind when he disappeared. She used to come in and fold it, move it to a hanger, then take it down again, over and over, saying he'd need it again soon, along with all his other things. And then he finally did come back, and the hoodie was too small; it would never fit him again.

"Honey…" Paul's voice was careful. He came in and gently took the sweatshirt. "What's going on?"

Sally took a breath. "I was just looking for Percy. You know how we asked him to start leaving notes when he goes out?"

Paul squeezed her arm, and led her back to the living room. "He'll be back, Sally."

She swallowed. "I know. I just—I don't know if he's not hearing us, or just doesn't care."

Paul sighed. "Well, we can talk to him again."

She let Paul pour her a glass of wine and push her down on the couch. He put on her favorite Joni Mitchell record and started making dinner.

Sally stayed there a while, thinking. Then she grabbed the phone and tried calling Percy. Both times it went straight to voicemail, like it was off, or dead.

She dug the phone under her chin, taking a deep breath. In front of her was the wall of family pictures she'd worked on over the past couple years. Absently, she looked at them, stepping closer.

There was the one after Percy's birth, taken by a nurse at the hospital. Sally's hair was damp; she was weak and drained, but her face, shining down at the bundle in her arms, was an exhausted beam of gratitude. She looked like a teenager, herself. She remembered the hospital staff's concern that she was there alone. And the way Percy had cried nonstop after the rough delivery; the nurse had handed him back to Sally, saying, "He's a fighter, this one." She'd glanced them over, and added, "Not unlike his mama."

There was Percy's fifth birthday; a dark shot of him behind his cake, candles glowing, Sally pressing in to kiss his cheek. Her hair was so long, then. A waitressing friend had taken the picture.

And more: pictures on the beach, blurry and sometimes tilted. One of her that he'd taken, catching her unawares—her face lifted to the rainy sky just as a sunbeam broke through; her old high school sweatshirt, her bare feet, her hair loose like seaweed.

And then they tapered off for a few years…mostly just to Percy's school pictures, which coincided with him entering pre-adolescence, and his sweet grin was replaced with scowls and stare-downs. In one, a white tag was visible at the collar; they'd made him turn his shirt inside out to hide whatever profanity it advertised.

There were none at all of Sally from that time.

Eventually, the pictures picked up again. There was one that had never found a frame, tucked into a corner; an image of Percy, Grover and Annabeth from a few years ago, seated on a bench and looking bored in a very obligatory, teenager sort of way. She'd suggested they smile, and was met with eye rolls and determined indifference.

It was one of her favorite shots.

There was also her and Paul at the courthouse; she wore a normal white dress, something you'd wear to the beach or a dinner party, and held a bouquet of violets. In one, she had her arms thrown around him; he was laughing into her neck. The other was posed for the camera, and Percy stood with them.

She studied Percy's face in that one. He was smiling—the way anyone does for a posed shot, she supposed. Not in a natural, wildly happy way. She had been wildly happy, that day. She cast her eyes, suddenly, over all the pictures. When was the last time he'd felt that way?

The record stuttered, then stopped. Sally blinked, then went to flip the B-side. As she was lifting the needle, there was a distinct knock on the door.

Startled, she peered through the peephole, then opened it quickly. "Annabeth?"

The teenager stood before her, wearing an oversize hoodie and torn jeans. She wasn't crying, exactly, but there was something pale in her appearance.

Annabeth stepped inside. "Hi, Sally…" She glanced around. "Is Percy here?"

Sally shook her head slowly. "No, honey. He's out somewhere."

"Oh." Annabeth looked at her fingernails. "Sorry to barge in—a neighbor let me in the building. I tried calling him, but, well, he never has his phone…"

"No, he doesn't, does he?" Sally studied Annabeth. While relatively healthy—at least physically—there was still a certain look about her that Sally could only identify as underfed. Not malnourished. Not wasting away. But pale, lacking, cut off from something she wasn't getting, and needed.

Annabeth sank down onto the couch. She rubbed a spot above her eyebrow, hardly seeming aware she was doing it. She looked tired.

Sally sat in the armchair opposite, and deliberated. Something she had learned about Annabeth was that, despite being tough and smart and fiercely independent, she was…flighty. She was hungry for something that perhaps only a girl who had grown up without a mother—without much of any real family—could be hungry for.

Sally would know.

But if you pushed too far too fast, or tried to overdo it, Annabeth was quick to distance herself. She was more street-smart, more independent, and less touchy-feely than Sally. There had been a handful of instances of Annabeth accepting a hug, or an honest conversation, or even a mug of tea and a place to rest from Sally—there had been even more, though, when all of those things had been smoothly deflected, with a swift excuse and then exit.

So instead of asking questions, Sally began casually talking about her own day. "I started the final round of edits on my manuscript—well, we can only hope—and you know, the perspective you gave on the Roman Empire was dead useful…"

She went on for a while, light and easy.

Annabeth listened, asking the occasional question, but still looking distinctly not-okay.

When Paul poked his head in and gave Annabeth a little wave, Sally invited her to stay for dinner. Annabeth immediately declined and said she should be going, but Paul waved them off—"It's not ready for a while yet; a good curry takes time." He disappeared back to the stove.

Sally wondered what would happen if Percy came home to find Annabeth having dinner with her and Paul. Once, she knew it would be a lighthearted, easy thing; now, she wondered if Percy was avoiding his girlfriend.

"So, how's your internship going?" Sally asked, aiming for casual.

Annabeth blinked. "Oh, um…"

Silence stretched out; Annabeth stared at her hands, her eyes fixed. She swallowed hard. And then they both seemed to realize at the same time that she was crying.

"Oh, honey…" Sally stood just as Annabeth did; the teenage girl backed away, swiping under her eyes.

"I should go—I have to—" She reeled toward the door.

"Annabeth, honey, please stay—" Sally reached for her arm, but she had already gone.

Taking a deep breath, Sally placed a hand over her chest, and watched the door close. Then she muttered a rare curse word, and turned for the kitchen.

"She just took off?" Paul turned the stove burner to a simmer.

Sally held up her hands, helpless. "When I asked about her internship—although, she seemed upset when she got here—she was looking for Percy."

Paul wiped his hands on a towel and pulled her in, pressing his lips into her hair. "You know, baby, you can't parent everyone."

Sally shook her head. "No, honey—I've known Annabeth since she was a little girl, practically. She's had a rough time. And she and Percy have been close for years—you know that."

She turned so she rested against his chest, his arm around her waist. "You know she's the reason Percy wants to go to college. I thank my lucky stars every day for that girl."

She thought a moment. "Although, I think he's been avoiding her."

Paul leaned back. "You think? The past two times she's called, he told me to say he wasn't here."

Sally frowned. "That's right, isn't it? I wonder why."

"They're young, Sally. He'll figure it out."

The thing was, though, they were only a couple years younger than Sally had been when she'd met Poseidon. When she'd become a mother. The idea of that scared the hell out of her.

They were interrupted by the sound of the door; Percy was home.

Sally went immediately over. He looked tired, worn; he kicked off his shoes and barely acknowledged them.

"You want dinner?" Paul called from the kitchen.

Percy waved a hand. "No, I ate." He headed for his room.

"Percy, honey, hang on a minute and talk to me," Sally protested.

With a sigh, her son turned and looked at her.

"Where were you?" Sally could hear the concern in her voice. "I would really appreciate it if you would let me know—"

"Mom, I was just kicking around the city, and I'm back before dark—"

"Yes, but we asked you to leave a note, or tell us where you are—"

"I was barely gone two hours! Why is everything such a huge deal now?" He lifted his hands, his frustration in every syllable.

Sally took a calming breath. Her voice was soft. "Percy, I'm just trying to find a way that works for all of us, all right? I think a little compromise isn't too much to ask."

He clearly wasn't in the mood for this discussion. "Okay, whatever." He turned to go.

"Hang on—did you see Annabeth?"

He turned. "Annabeth?"

"She only just left—I thought you might've caught her downstairs, or—"

"Annabeth was here?"

"She was looking for you. She seemed really upset—she left here crying."

She watched Percy process that information. His face was dark and serious; she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

He started walking to his room again.

"Sweetheart, I really think you should call her—I'm concerned about her lack of support system. She doesn't have the resources that—"

"Yeah, okay."

"Percy, please come back here and talk about this. I mentioned her internship and it seemed to set her off—I don't know what's going on, but I think it's important that you show up for—"

"Mom." His voice was sharp. "Stop."

He turned to face her again. "I don't need you to talk to me about this. You don't have to get involved in everything."

Sally put her hands up, taking a deep breath, upset. "Percy, I am trying to have a two minute conversation with you—"

"No, you're butting in to stuff that doesn't involve you, and you're being really controlling—" his voice rose as he pushed past her for the front door.

"Percy Jackson, do not leave again—"

The door slammed.

Silence reverberated through the apartment. Sally pressed a palm to her forehead, closing her eyes and breathing; she felt the tears anyway.

She sensed Paul behind her. He put his hands on her arms, strong and steady.

"I don't know what to do," Sally whispered, eyes still shut. "I don't know what to do for him."

Paul was silent for a moment. Then he said, voice thoughtful, "He's strong, Sally."

He kissed her hair. "Like someone else I know."

…

Here was the thing that Sally Jackson knew about love.

It wasn't light, or sugary, or full of Hallmark movies and blanket forts and perfectly-angled photographs.

Love was gritty, and determined, and real. It looked like working twelve-hour shifts, arguing to keep the lights on, and keeping a brave face. It looked like long reading-practice sessions, throwing out a useless report card, and straight-up begging a board of admissions. Like silence and appeasement and shrinking; like bruises and long sleeves in the summer; like sacrifice. It was cramped apartments and rare, long drives to the beach and running straight into the waves; a photograph taken off-kilter and unawares.

And no one told you how to do it; you went along and made all these blind decisions, hoping and praying they were right, using one thing as your guide. And somewhere along the way, you realized the sacrifice got blurry, because you wanted the best for your kid—but maybe the best wasn't keeping them with you, it was sending them away, maybe forever—and suddenly the harm that was caused at home seemed greater than that which could be inflicted anywhere else.

Or maybe that was only clear in hindsight.

The world wasn't a safe place for her son. But it wasn't a safe place for anyone else's, either. That was what she knew; that was what she'd told herself. You can't protect them from everything—you can only try to give them what they need.

Her own love had turned selfish; what she had given him was a volatile, chaotic home. An unstable handful of formative years, with a figure of mistreatment and abuse.

The rest of his life—camp and the quests and the wars—she couldn't control. She could only be there, then and now. And while it was hard and painful, it was almost more so to look back and see what she had had control over—and what could never be reversed.

Those scars ran deep. She would know.

And so at midnight, when the only sound was the tick of the mantle clock and the hum of television from the next-door neighbors; when Percy had still not returned, she got up from her vigil on the couch, put the feeling of helplessness behind her, and she made a phone call.