Petunia’s nose leaves a perfect oval of fog on the glass. She doesn’t pull back. Her breath comes slow, steady, as if she’s counting something inside. Johnny Maverick hasn’t touched his coffee. The waitress refilled it twice. The first cup sits at his elbow, skin forming on the surface, a tiny island of cream congealed at the edge. His guitar case leans against the stool, brass latches reflecting the neon beer sign in the window — red, then blue, then red again. Through the glass, Petunia watches him. She’s been watching for twelve minutes. Bob is halfway down the block, checking under a dumpster for something he thought he saw move. He trusts her to keep watch. She always does. Johnny’s hand drifts to the case. He doesn’t open it. Just rests his palm on the worn leather, feeling the vibration that’s been humming through the handle since he crossed the county line. A frequency. A summons. Something buried in the orchards that knows his name. He told the waitress he was passing through. That’s what he always says. But the truth is, he’s been circling Okanogan for three days. Every time he tries to leave, the road curves back. Every time he checks his phone, the same coordinates glow on the map — a spot in the hills where the soil hums at night. Petunia whines. Low. A single note. Johnny looks up. Through the fog on the glass, he meets her eyes. And for a second, the diner drops away — the clatter of plates, the murmur of the old men at the counter, the hiss of the espresso machine — and it’s just him and a dog who knows too much. He stands. Leaves a crumpled bill on the counter. Picks up the case. Outside, the streetlights flicker. The fog from Petunia’s breath fades. She turns and pads down the sidewalk, not looking back, because she knows he’ll follow. Bob rounds the corner, empty-handed. "Find anything?" he asks. Petunia wags her tail once. Twice. Then keeps walking. Behind them, the diner door swings closed. Johnny Maverick steps onto the sidewalk, guitar case in hand, and follows the dog into the dark.