The shard is warm. Not like sun-warmed metal—like something that just stopped moving. Bob turns it over in his palm, and the dirt clings to its surface in thin, dry crusts. It's about the length of his index finger, irregular, jagged on one edge, smooth on the other. The glow pulses at the core, a soft blue that makes his bones ache. Petunia hasn't stopped barking since he pulled it out. Not her usual alert bark—this is different. Higher. Sharper. She paces in a tight circle, her massive Newfoundland body brushing against his legs, forcing him to shift his weight. Her tail is tucked. Her ears are pinned flat. "I know," Bob whispers, though he doesn't know what he's agreeing to. The Whitfield house is thirty feet away, its upper windows dark rectangles that reflect nothing. The porch sags. A single board hangs loose from the railing, swinging with the breeze. No one has lived here in twelve years, but Bob has never come this close. Not until tonight. He closes his fingers around the shard. The warmth spreads up his arm, settling in his chest like a held breath. He tries to let go. His hand won't open. Petunia stops barking. She whines—low, worried—and presses her head against his knee. Her eyes are fixed on the house's front door, which is cracked open an inch. Just enough to see darkness inside. Bob stands. The shard stays in his fist. He takes one step toward the porch. Petunia growls, a sound so deep it vibrates through his leg. She doesn't move to block him. She's waiting. Above, the sky is the color of a bruise. Something flickers behind the clouds—not lightning. Something slower. Something that pulses in time with the shard. Bob takes another step. The porch creaks. Inside the house, a light turns on.