Lazaro hmphed. “I’ve scaled a 200-foot Douglas fir and touched one. Does that count?”
Nigel sneered—you could actually hear it, even from the front. “Ya, mon. But only in your dreams.”
Roman nodded at Lazaro. “Yeah? Was it big?” He sounded jocular, condescending. “How big was it, you think?”
“I don’t know. About four feet,” said Lazaro. He seemed annoyed—even hurt. “What’s it matter?”
“I was just wondering how it compared to, say, that, at five o’clock.”
We all saw it at once as the helicopter leaned and I was pressed against Sam: a nest the size of one of those above-ground pools—the kind someone like Lazaro might have had before the Flashback—built up around the Needle’s radio tower and comprised of mud and fallen timber.
“Jesus, it’s everywhere,” whispered Sam, her face and chesnu
