The dirt is cool against Bob's knees for about three seconds before the heat seeps through his jeans. Petunia's nose is still pressed to the ground where she found it—a small disc, maybe the size of his palm, half-buried under a tangle of dry grass and stones. She had stopped mid-stride, her massive black head swinging down with a suddenness that made Bob freeze. Then she nudged. Once. Twice. And now he holds it. It's warm. Warmer than it should be, given how long it's been in the dirt. And it's humming—a low, steady vibration that travels up his arm and settles somewhere behind his ribs. The surface is smooth, metallic, not quite silver, not quite gray. Etched into the center is a symbol he's never seen: a circle bisected by a jagged line, with three small dots arcing around the top like a constellation he doesn't recognize. Petunia whines. Not her usual "I'm hungry" whine, or her "let's keep moving" huff. This one is deeper, throatier—a sound he's only heard once before, when a stranger's truck had rumbled too close to their yard at midnight. Bob turns the disc over. The underside is identical, but when his thumb brushes across the symbol, the hum changes pitch. Rises. Holds. His heart thuds in his ears. "What is this?" he whispers. Petunia presses her cold, wet nose against his cheek. Then she looks past him, toward the tree line where the shadows are growing long. Her tail is still. The hum shifts again—drops lower, like something answering from far away. Bob shoves the disc into his pocket and stands. The warmth presses against his thigh, steady and insistent. He doesn't know what he's found. But Petunia does. And she's never wrong. They walk home in the lengthening silence, the disc humming all the way, and Bob wonders if the thing in his pocket is a key or a warning. Either way, the door is already open.