The guitar case is still warm from the show. Johnny Maverick unclasps the latches with the same motion he's used a thousand times—thumb and forefinger, a quick twist, a soft click. But when the lid swings open, the air changes. Petunia's ears flatten first. Then the growl starts. Low. Constant. A vibration that travels up through the floorboards and into Bob's bones. The device sits on top of Johnny's spare strings—a disc of dark metal no bigger than a pocket watch, its surface etched with a symbol that seems to shift when you look at it directly. 'That's not mine,' Johnny says. He hasn't touched it. Bob kneels, one hand on Petunia's neck. Her muscles are iron cords under the thick black fur. He can feel her heart hammering against his palm. 'Where did it come from?' The growl deepens. Johnny picks up the device with two fingers, turning it over. The underside is smooth, seamless, except for a single seam that runs its circumference—a hairline fracture that leaks a faint blue glow. 'I don't know. I closed this case after the soundcheck. Nobody touched it.' Petunia's growl becomes a whine. Her nose is aimed at the device like a compass needle. Bob reaches for it. 'Don't,' Johnny says. But Bob's fingers are already closing around the cold metal. The moment his skin makes contact, the glow spikes. A hum fills the room—not a sound you hear, but a frequency you feel in your teeth. Bob's eyes go distant. The floor seems to tilt. Petunia is barking now, frantic, clawing at his arm. And then the device goes silent again. Bob blinks. His hand is empty. Johnny is staring at him, pale. 'Bob. What did you see?' But Bob just shakes his head slowly, like someone waking from a dream he can't remember. 'I don't know,' he whispers. 'But it knows us.' Outside, the streetlights of Okanogan flicker once and die. The night goes dark around them.