Bob's fingers stopped an inch from the dirt. The glow was faint at first—a pulse, steady as a heartbeat, rising through the dry Okanogan earth like a slow breath. Petunia stood rigid beside him, her massive Newfoundland frame a wall of black fur and silence. She hadn't barked. She hadn't whined. She just watched. Bob looked up. At the treeline, maybe forty yards out, Johnny Maverick stood motionless. His guitar case hung from one hand, the worn leather catching the last of the sunset. He didn't wave. He didn't call out. He just stood there, watching Bob watch the thing in the ground. "You see it too?" Bob whispered. Petunia's tail dropped. Bob's hand moved closer. The pulse quickened. The dirt around the object was warm—he could feel it radiating against his palm before he even touched the surface. He brushed away a layer of dry soil and felt something smooth, impossibly smooth, like river stone polished for a thousand years. It was egg-shaped, about the size of his fist, and it was humming. Not a sound—a vibration. A frequency that settled in his chest like a second heartbeat. From the treeline, Johnny finally moved. One step forward. Then another. His boots crunched on dry grass. "Bob," he said. His voice was low, almost gentle. "Don't pick it up." Bob's hand hovered. Petunia's growl rumbled deep in her throat—not at the object. At Johnny. The pulse flared once, bright, and the ground trembled. Something was coming through.