The screen door clicks shut. Petunia’s ears tilt forward, catching the familiar crunch of gravel under tires, then the low hum of Bob’s truck pulling away down the long drive. She waits until the sound fades into the distant white noise of wind through the orchard. Then she exhales—a long, slow breath that stirs the dust on the porch boards. She pads over to the mat by the door. Bob’s boot is there, left behind, the leather still warm where his foot had been. She noses it once, then circles twice before settling, her body curling around it like it’s something precious. Her tail tucks tight against her side. The sun climbs higher, casting long shadows across the yard. A bee drones past the screen. Somewhere in the distance, a truck shifts gears on the highway. Petunia rests her chin on the boot’s worn toe and closes her eyes. She doesn’t sleep. She listens. The porch boards creak under her weight. The wind shifts. And for a long time, nothing moves but the light. Then, from somewhere deep in the valley—a sound. Low. Rhythmic. Almost like a heartbeat, pulsing through the ground. Petunia’s eyes open. Her ears swivel. She doesn’t bark. She just watches the direction Bob went, her tail giving one slow, deliberate thump against the wood.