The porch boards are cold through Bob’s jeans. He’s been sitting here since the sky went from black to gray to the pale blue of early morning, a map spread across his knees that he found tucked inside an old book in Johnny’s studio. The ink is faded, but someone—Johnny, maybe—drew lines connecting the old Whitfield property to the creek, to the bend in the river where Petunia found that disc, to a spot marked only with a question mark. Bob adds his own marks in red. X’s. Circles. A jagged line that follows the fence behind the barn. Petunia’s head rests on his thigh, heavy and warm. Her tail sweeps the dust once, twice. Then her ears move—not the full alert, but a tilt, a rotation toward the orchard where the apple trees stand in even rows, their leaves barely stirring. Bob stops breathing. He’s learned to read her silences. This one means: something is there. Not close. Not moving. Just... present. He looks up. The light is changing, the sun cresting the ridge and flooding the valley with a soft, amber glow. For a moment, the orchard is just an orchard. Then Bob sees it—a shape that isn’t a tree, isn’t a shadow, isn’t anything that belongs. It stands at the edge of the third row, maybe twenty yards in. Tall. Still. The light passes through it the way light passes through smoke. Petunia whines, low in her throat. Bob’s hand finds the fur at her neck. He doesn’t look away. The shape doesn’t move. It doesn’t have to. It’s already seen him. He breathes. Once. Twice. The shape is gone. Or maybe it was never there. But the map’s question mark is still waiting, and Bob knows where he’s going next. 25NQCHZZ