The garage smelled of old motor oil and dust. Petunia's claws clicked against the concrete floor as she paced from the toolbox to the workbench and back again. Bob watched from the doorway, still in his pajamas, one hand gripping the frame. She stopped at the toolbox. Her nose hovered over the latch. Then she looked at him. "I know," he whispered, though he didn't know what he was agreeing to. Petunia nudged the latch with her snout. It clicked open. Bob stepped closer, his bare feet cold on the floor. Inside, the tools lay in their usual places — screwdriver, wrench, wire, flashlight — but something was different. The screwdriver was rotated exactly forty-five degrees from where he'd left it. The wire was coiled in a perfect spiral, not the loose loop he always made. "You did this?" She whined, low in her throat. Bob knelt. His fingers hovered over the tools. He felt a hum, faint, like a radio station playing just beyond reach. Petunia pressed her head against his chest, and the hum sharpened into something almost audible. A number formed in his mind: ECVUS8GM. He didn't know what it meant. But the moment he thought it, Petunia relaxed, her tail giving one slow wag. "Okay," he said, his voice steady now. "Okay." He closed the toolbox. Outside, the sky was turning peach. Johnny's truck hadn't pulled up yet. But Petunia was already at the garage door, waiting, her nose pressed to the crack where the morning light bled through. Bob looked at the toolbox. Then at the symbol scratched into the workbench — the same one from the device in the field. He touched it with his thumb. It was warm.