Bob's fingers trace the carved lines on the oak's trunk. The symbol is shallow, freshly cut—sap still beads along the grooves. It pulses once, a low throb of green light that fades as quickly as it came. He pulls his hand back and wipes his palm on his jeans. The skin tingles. Behind him, Petunia has stopped at the tree line. She stands with her ears pinned flat, her massive black frame rigid. She whines—a high, thin sound that doesn't belong in a dog her size. Bob glances back. “Come on, girl. It's just a tree.” She doesn't move. Her tail is tucked. Bob turns back to the carving. It's not just circles and lines. There's intention here—a repetition to the curves that feels almost like writing. He's seen it before. Not on a tree. On a scrap of paper clipped to Johnny Maverick's refrigerator last week. He'd asked about it, and Johnny had gone quiet, changed the subject. A twig snaps deep in the woods. Petunia's growl rumbles low in her chest. “I know,” Bob whispers, more to himself than to her. He pulls his phone out and takes a photo. The glow is already fading, the carving darkening back to ordinary bark. By morning, it might be gone entirely. He backs away, step by step, until he reaches Petunia. She presses her shoulder against his leg, warm and solid, and they stand together at the edge of the trees, watching the oak settle into shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a drone's buzz cuts the night air once, then vanishes. Bob's hand finds Petunia's thick fur. “We need to call Johnny.” She whines again, but this time it's agreement.