Rick Riordan
- The Lost Hero
Leo was sleepy. She nestled him into his blankets in a warm mound of red and yellow-pillows. The bed was like a cubby-hole in the wall, made of blackened bricks, with a metal slot over his head and a square hole far above, where he could see the stars. He remembered resting comfortably, grabbing at sparks like fireflies. He dozed, and dreamed of a boat made of fire, sailing through the cinders. He imagined himself on board, navigating the sky.
