Apollo woke late. 7:15. His sister Dawn was long gone — and he had overslept.
In full panic, he raced outside to the stables of Mount Olympus, where his fiery steeds would be waiting.
He shouldn’t have worried. High above the horizon, an ancient Egyptian dung beetle had been called into service, and it was pushing the fiery ball of the sun across a clear blue sky.
Apollo laughed. He hadn’t had a day off from work in what — 3,000 years? 4,000? He had lost count.
Suddenly a familiar voice shouted his name, and Chiron, the archer of Sagittarius, was at his side, rumpling his hair.
“Paulinho, old pal! Did you get enough rest?”
Apollo shrugged. “I shouldn’t have stayed up so late singing songs with Pan and Bacchus. Ye gods. My head is splitting like Jupiter’s.”
Chiron, who doubled as a healer, leaned in for a closer look.
“I don’t see any new goddesses taking shape behind your eyeballs. I think you’re just hung over … but if you want, we could get you a tonic.”
The two turned away from the stables and walked to the great hall.
Ganymede was there. He was always there, behind the bar, mixing and stirring the elixir of life.
One look at Apollo, and he started pouring.
“One olive, or two?”
“I’ll take three,” Apollo replied. “And toast.”
“Opa!” Ganymede replied. “To your health!”