33
Michael sat at the top of Nell. The warm summer breeze had been replaced by one of the chill fogs on which the redwoods thrived. Yet he stayed. When darkness fell he didn’t bother rigging a Treeboat, merely zipped his jacket up tight to his chin, tucked it down into his safety harness, and dug his fists deep into the pockets.
The storm that had been sweeping in from the Pacific as they left Nell aboard Emily’s helicopter had been short but brutally sharp. Several Titans had fallen. Two near Arcata, one up in Jedediah, and another here in Del Norte. It was a devastating loss, four of fewer than fifty.
Nell had survived, but not unscathed. One of her major tops—though not the highest—had broken and crashed down, only to snag in the lower branches. Much of the wreckage had broken throug
