This kind of night time was not one that he was used to.

This place had so much pollution that it almost looked as if someone had eaten a melted orange popsicle, then smeared the remains across the sky. The stars, they had been scared away; the moon was a sliver plate suspended upon a translucent string. Silhouettes of buildings stood defiantly, glowing, against the horizon.

They had arrived. New York.

Luke gazed at the sight before him. Maybe they could find refuge here. Maybe the satyr was correct. Maybe there could find a time that wouldn't consist of constant running, constant danger.

He sighed, and turned his head, looking back. He was alone in the street.

A few blocks away, Annabeth and Thalia were asleep on one another's shoulders, Grover close beside. They were in an alley, surrounded by the pungent smells of the city.

Luke didn't know what more he could do to help.