The porch boards groan under Bob's weight as he shifts, knees pulled up, the map spread across his thighs. It's old—creases so deep the paper has split in places, taped back together with yellowed Scotch tape that no longer sticks. He's never shown it to anyone. Not Johnny. Not Kiva. It's his own private geography, a hand-drawn network of lines that connect nothing to nothing, unless you know what you're looking at. Petunia's head rests on his foot, heavy and warm. But her ears are up—pivoting like satellite dishes, scanning the dark treeline where the first pale light is just beginning to separate sky from earth. A bird calls. She doesn't relax. Bob traces a line with his finger. It ends at a small X, drawn in pencil, nearly erased by time and sweat. He's stared at that X so many times he's memorized every splinter of wood grain around it on the map. He still doesn't know what it marks. But this morning, for the first time, the X doesn't feel like a question. It feels like a door. Petunia whines low in her chest, a sound that vibrates through the floorboards and up into his spine. He folds the map, slow and careful, and slips it inside his sweatshirt. The paper crackles against his chest. 'Yeah,' he says, voice rough from sleep. 'I hear it too.' The treeline is still. But something in the way the light hits the leaves—wrong, like the shadows are falling the wrong direction for this hour—makes Bob's hand find Petunia's fur. She presses into him, solid and warm. From somewhere beyond the orchard, a sound like a breath drawn through a long pipe. Faint. Almost lost in the wind. Petunia's growl is the only answer. Bob stands. The map presses against his ribs like a second heartbeat. 'Come on, girl.' He steps off the porch. The grass is wet with dew. Behind him, the screen door hasn't latched, and it taps once, twice, three times against the frame—a rhythm that feels like a countdown he can't quite hear.