The dust settles around Bob's sneakers. He's been standing here for maybe a minute, staring at the fence line where the wire dips between two crooked posts. He's not thinking about anything—not really—just watching the light change as the sun drops behind the ridge. Petunia's head presses into his palm. Not hard. Just a nudge. The same nudge she's given him a thousand times before. He doesn't look down. He doesn't need to. He lifts his foot and takes another step. The gravel crunches. Petunia falls in beside him, her massive shoulder brushing his hip. He doesn't talk about it. Not to Johnny, who'd probably laugh it off. Not to Kiva, who'd read too much into it. But he's noticed. She never does this to anyone else. Not even when Johnny's hand dangles at his side. Not even when Lizard Lou stands still long enough to be nudged. Just him. As if she's reminding him that stopping isn't allowed. That whatever they're walking toward, they have to keep walking. He reaches down and rests his hand on the thick fur of her neck. She leans into it. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of dry grass and something else—something metallic, faint, like copper after rain. Bob stops again. Petunia doesn't nudge this time. She just looks ahead, ears forward, tail still. The fence line ends at a patch of earth that looks wrong. Too dark. Too smooth. Bob's fingers tighten in her fur. "You see it too?" he whispers. She doesn't answer. But she doesn't look away.