The wood of the porch steps is cold through Bob's jeans. He's been sitting here since the sky started turning gray, since before the birds remembered how to sing. Petunia's head is a warm, heavy weight across his thighs, her breath slow and even. She's not asleep. He knows the difference. Her eyes are open, fixed on the same patch of yard where, hours ago, something moved. It wasn't an animal. He's seen raccoons, deer, the occasional coyote slipping through the orchard. This was different. Taller. Wrong. And Petunia—she never barked. She never barks when it matters. He told Johnny about it this morning, voice low over the kitchen table. Johnny's coffee went cold. 'You sure?' he asked. Bob wasn't sure of anything except the way his stomach had tightened and stayed tight. 'I saw it,' he said. 'Petunia saw it.' Now the sun is starting to paint the tops of the apple trees gold, and the shadows are pulling back, revealing nothing but dirt and grass and the old tire swing. Still, Bob can't shake the feeling that something is watching from the treeline. Something that knows he saw it. Petunia's tail thumps once against the porch. A signal. He looks down at her. Her brown eyes meet his, calm and steady, and he knows she's saying: I'm here. We wait together. Bob presses his palm flat against the thick fur of her neck, feeling the steady pulse of her heartbeat. The air smells like damp earth and the last of the night's cool. He doesn't know what's coming. But he knows he's not facing it alone. Across the orchard, a single crow lifts from a branch and flies east. Bob watches it go. Then he turns his gaze back to the treeline and waits.