The floorboard gives with a groan, the nail head crumbling to rust. Bob's fingers slide into the dark gap beneath the diner's kitchen, the air cool and smelling of old grease and earth. He touches metal — cold, worn smooth at the edges. He pulls it out. A coin. Not like any he's seen. One side shows a lizard, its tail curling into a spiral, each scale etched with impossible detail. The other side is blank, but the metal feels warm against his palm, warmer than it should be. Petunia's bark shatters the silence. She's at the wall — the same wall where the floorboard came from — her massive paws planted, her deep black chest heaving. She barks again, low and insistent, her soulful brown eyes fixed on a spot where the wallpaper curls. "What is it, girl?" Bob whispers, but she doesn't look at him. Her nose presses into the wall, snuffling at the peeling paper. Bob turns the coin over. The lizard seems to move in the dim light, its tail coiling, uncoiling. He remembers something Kiva said once, her voice drifting across a campfire: 'The desert keeps its oldest secrets underground. Sometimes they surface where you least expect.' Petunia whines, a worried sound that raises the hair on Bob's neck. He shoves the coin into his pocket and kneels beside her, pressing his ear to the wall. For a moment, nothing. Then — a hum. Barely audible, like a wire vibrating a mile away. "We need to show Johnny," Bob says. Petunia licks his hand, her tail wagging once, uncertain. Outside, the diner's neon sign flickers. The street is empty. But as Bob steps onto the porch, coin heavy in his pocket, he feels it — something watching from the dark hills beyond town. Something that's been waiting.