The light pulses once. Slow. Deliberate. Like a heartbeat through dirt. Bob's fingers hover an inch above the glow. He doesn't touch it. Not yet. Petunia's breath comes in short, hot bursts against his neck, her body a wall of warmth and tension against his side. "Easy, girl." His whisper barely cuts the silence. The old Whitfield house looms behind them, windows dark, porch sagging. Nobody's lived here since before Bob was born. But the ground beneath his knees is warm. Too warm. The object is the size of a fist. Smooth. Metallic, but not metal — something else. It hums in a frequency that doesn't quite reach sound, more felt than heard, settling into the bones behind his ears. Bob reaches out. Petunia whines. Low. Urgent. He stops. Looks at her. Her brown eyes are fixed on the object, unblinking, tail frozen mid-air. She knows something he doesn't. She always does. "What is it?" She doesn't answer. She just presses her nose into his palm, and the hum shifts — drops a half-step, like a song changing key. Bob pulls his hand back. Stands slowly. Brushes the dirt from his knees. "We don't tell anyone about this yet." Petunia rises beside him, massive and silent. Together they step back, then turn, walking toward the road. The glow fades behind them, swallowed by the dusk. But the hum follows. A thread. A tether. Pulling him toward something he can't name. Bob doesn't look back. He will. Tomorrow.