The tour bus hums low, its generator kicking on and off in the damp Okanogan night. Johnny Maverick doesn't hear it. He's three hours into a video he's watched a hundred times—a show in Spokane, 2019. The crowd is a single living thing, swaying, arms raised, mouths open. He watches them sing along to a chorus he wrote in a motel room off I-90. But tonight, for the first time, he notices: his own voice is missing from the track. Not the recording. The memory. He can see the shape of the words on his lips, can feel the vibration in his chest, but the sound won't come back to him. The phone screen cracks light across his face, catching the dust hanging in the still air. Outside, the valley is dark. No stars. Fog has rolled in from the river, swallowing the rows of apple trees, the distant silhouette of the Dawghouse, the whole sleeping town. He pauses the video. The silence that rushes in is not empty. It's heavy, pressed against the thin walls of the bus like something waiting. Johnny sets the phone face-down on the table. He doesn't sleep. He stares at the ceiling and listens to the fog. Somewhere out there, Petunia lifts her head. She whines once, low, and presses her nose to the window. The bus is still. The valley holds its breath. Whatever came for Johnny's voice tonight is not done with him yet.