'It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.'
That was what John Green had said. Whitman and Salinger, too, had advocated the power of voyage. The very nature of human life was that it changed; it evolved; it moved on, and no matted how hard you tried you could not stop it's course. It was not, however, a desire for adventure that had motivated his leaving. It was a loss.
For six years, Toby had lived in camp. He had never once taken a trip into the outside world, unless approved by Chiron himself. Now he was evoking on a trip from which he possibly wouldn't return. Ever. The thought did not scare him. It filled him with an ethereal sense of adventure that spurred him on.
He had left a note under Toph's pillow that he had hurriedly scribbled before leaving. His bag had been packed the previous night: Two jumpers. Three shirts. Two pairs of trousers. Eighty-three drachmas. A torch. A multi-pack of fruit roll-ups. A water canister. Ravioli. Annie's supernatural boxset.
He did not know when he would return, but he was sure when he did, he'd have several adventures to tell of. Perhaps he would even write a book. With a heavy heart, the son of Hecate took a deep breath, left his home, and fled his nest.
