I reached out, fumbling for the thread I could feel, the thing the dark-haired archer must have used a minute ago to contact me, and I pushed every bit of my singular thought down it: Call my name!
Halfway through preparing another barrage of arrows, he stopped, eyes flitting over in my direction. Whatever he thought of my Hail Mary play, he didn't let on, and without arguing or hesitating, he opened his mouth and said, "Taylor Hebert!"
And like a film had been removed from my brain, everything cleared. The memory I'd been grasping for a moment ago — of Herakles, storming through everything we'd thrown at him, of Lung, fleshing bubbling as his wounds healed and his body grew, of a great golden man shrugging off everything thrown his way — clicked back into place. The familiarity of that feeling, of slowly losing myself and forgetting the names of my friends, twisted up my stomach, becoming something black and furious.