The forest had gone still. Even the wind held its breath. Petunia's paw rested on the rock like she was claiming it. The glow pulsed beneath her fur—slow, steady, like a heartbeat. Bob's fingers hovered inches away, caught in the amber-green light. "Don't touch it." Johnny's voice cracked the silence. He stepped out from between the pines, his boots crunching on dry needles. His face—usually all smirk and stage presence—was the color of old bone. He grabbed Bob's wrist, firm but not rough. "I said don't touch it." Bob looked up, confused. The rock hummed. Petunia didn't move, but her eyes tracked Johnny with a knowing stillness that made the hair on Bob's arms stand up. "You've seen this before?" Bob asked. Johnny swallowed. He crouched down, never letting go of Bob's wrist, and stared at the rock like it was a ghost he'd buried years ago. His free hand traced the air above it without making contact. "Last time I saw this light," he said, voice low, "I was in a motel outside Tucson. Middle of the night. Something knocked on my door. Not a knock, really—more like the door wasn't there anymore, and something was standing where it used to be." Petunia let out a low rumble. Not a growl. Something closer to a warning. "What was it?" Bob whispered. Johnny's aviators had fogged up. He pulled them off slowly, and for the first time Bob saw his eyes—bloodshot, haunted, the same amber-green reflection as the rock. "It asked me where I hid the frequency," Johnny said. "Then the rock in its chest started glowing. Just like this one." The forest exhaled. A branch snapped somewhere behind them. Petunia's ears flattened. Bob didn't pull his hand away. But he didn't reach for the rock either. Not yet.