Tucker seemed to think about it, rocking back and forth on his heels, his chin angled imperiously. “Possibly. Possibly. What does everyone else think?”
No one said anything. At last Bo said, “I think, Mr. President, that it’s getting late—and that everyone’s getting tired. Including, if I may, sir, you.”
Tucker just looked at him, his lips pursed, his expression intense—like a puffy-eyed Bald Eagle after a bender, thought Tess. “I don’t sleep much,” he said.
That’s when they heard it: the long, warbling cry (but with an edge; a rattling muscularity, like a cross between a coyote and a lion; something big), which echoed along the plain and was just as soon answered—by something even bigger. Or at least bigger-sounding.
“That was nice,” said Tess, leaning into Coup; and then she was fall
