fetch with the satyr.

 

"Blah-haa-haa!" Grover bleated.

 

"You okay, man?"

 

"Oh, I'm fine." He rubbed his head. His horns had grown so much they poked an

inch above his curly hair. "I was at the other end of the park. The dryads had

this great idea of passing me through the trees to get me here. They don't

understand height very well."

 

He grinned and got to his feet — well, his hooves, actually. Since last summer,

Grover had stopped trying to disguise himself as human. He never wore a cap or

fake feet anymore. He didn't even wear jeans, since he had lurry goat legs from

the waist down. His T-shirt had a picture from that book Where the Wild Things

Are. It was covered with dirt and tree sap. His goatee looked fuller, almost

manly (or goatly?), and he was as tall as me now.

 

"Good to see you, G-man," I said. "You remember Nico."

 

Grover nodded at Nico, then he gave me a big hug. He smelled like fresh-mown

lawns.

 

"Perrrrcy!" he bleated. "I missed you! I miss camp. They don't serve very good

enchiladas in the wilderness."