Bob found her like that. Just sitting in the middle of a perfect circle of stones she'd arranged herself—each one placed with deliberate care, as if she'd been planning it for hours. He'd been calling her name for the last five minutes, his voice growing tighter with each unanswered call. "Petunia?" She didn't turn. Her massive black head stayed fixed on the horizon, where the sun was bleeding orange and purple across the Okanogan hills. Her ears didn't even twitch. Bob stepped closer, his boots crunching on the dry grass. The circle was about ten feet across, the stones varying in size from pebbles to chunks the size of his fist. They were arranged in a near-perfect ring, gaps evenly spaced, as if measured by some invisible compass. "What is this?" he whispered, more to himself than to her. Petunia's tail gave one slow wag—a heavy, deliberate thump against the ground. But she still wouldn't look at him. Bob crouched at the edge of the circle, watching her profile against the fading light. Something about the scene made his chest feel tight. It wasn't just strange—it was wrong. Like walking into a room and finding all the furniture moved three inches to the left. A world slightly off its axis. "Petunia," he said again, softer this time. "What's out there?" Her tail stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than any answer she could have given. Bob looked past her, toward the darkening line of the mountains. He couldn't see anything unusual—just the same old hills, the same tired trees, the same sky that had been there his whole life. But Petunia was seeing something else. He could feel it in the stillness of her body, in the way her breath came slow and measured, like she was waiting for something. He sat down on the nearest rock, just outside the circle. He wasn't going to cross it. Not yet. Minutes passed. The last light bled out of the sky. Stars began to emerge, one by one, cold and watchful. A low hum started somewhere. Bob couldn't tell if it came from the ground or the air or inside his own head. He looked at Petunia. For the first time since he'd found her, she turned her head and met his eyes. Her gaze was calm. Certain. Like she'd been waiting for him to understand. And then she looked back at the horizon, and Bob followed her stare. Something was shimmering in the dark. A thin line of light, barely visible, running from the base of the nearest hill all the way up into the sky. It pulsed once, twice, and then faded. Bob's breath caught. "Is that... a connection?" he whispered. Petunia's tail wagged again—slow, deliberate, knowing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Mobi Ball. Its surface was cold and inert, but as he held it up toward the place where the light had been, a faint glow flickered deep within its core. A response. "Okay," Bob said, his voice steady now. "Okay. I see it." He stood up, stepped carefully over the circle of stones, and sat down beside Petunia. Together, they watched the darkness where something was beginning to take shape.