The oak stands at the edge of the pasture, older than the town, older than the road that crumbled to gravel decades ago. Bob's fingers find the groove before his eyes do. A guitar pick wedged into the bark, buried deep enough that the tree grew around it. He pries it loose. It's warm. Not from the sun. Johnny Maverick's signature curls across the tortoiseshell surface, the ink faded but legible. Bob turns it over. The other side is blank, but his thumb catches a scratch. Letters. Carved, not written. Coordinates. Petunia's growl starts low, a vibration Bob feels through the soles of his boots. She's locked on the base of the oak, ears flat, the hackles along her spine raised in a slow wave. Her tail doesn't move. "What is it, girl?" She doesn't look at him. Doesn't whine. Just growls. Bob kneels, places his palm flat against the bark. The hum is there, faint, the same frequency he felt in the water bowl, in the dirt behind the barn. The same frequency that made his device buzz hot against his thigh. He presses his ear to the trunk. Beneath the wind, beneath the distant sound of a truck grinding gears on the highway, there's something else. A rhythm. Almost a heartbeat. Petunia's growl deepens. Her paw scrapes the dirt, once, twice, uncovering a line of disturbed earth that circles the oak in a perfect ring. Bob stares at it. A circle. Just like the one in the clearing. He pockets the pick. The warmth spreads through his jeans, a small, persistent heat. Behind him, the sun drops behind the mountains, and the shadows lengthen. Petunia finally turns, nudges his hand, and walks toward the barn. Then stops. Waits. Bob looks at the oak one last time. The hum is still there. Louder now. Or maybe he's just learning to hear it.