Bob's fingers move slow through Petunia's fur, the way he always does after a walk — checking for burrs, twigs, the stray bit of something she's rolled in. His hand stops. Something warm. Not a tick. Not a thorn. He parts the thick black coat near her shoulder and there it is, pressed against her skin like it's been there for hours. A seed. Small. Teardrop-shaped. Glowing a soft, steady amber from the inside. Petunia lets out a low whine and turns her head, her wet nose brushing his wrist. She's not looking at the seed. She's looking past him, toward the treeline where the fog is starting to roll in off the valley floor. Bob pulls the seed free. It's warm in his palm, heavier than it should be. He holds it up, turns it. The glow pulses once, like a heartbeat. "Where'd you find this?" he whispers. Petunia's ears flatten. She steps closer to his leg, presses her whole weight against his knee. A warning. Bob looks at the treeline again. The fog is thicker now, curling through the lower branches, swallowing the path they just came from. He can't see the house anymore. The seed pulses again. Warmer this time. He stuffs it into his pocket and stands. "Okay," he says, mostly to himself. "Okay." Petunia leads him back, not toward the path but along a different line, cutting through the tall grass at the edge of the orchard. She moves fast, nose low, tail still. Bob follows, his hand in his pocket, the seed like a small coal against his thigh. Behind them, something shifts in the fog. Not footsteps. Not a branch. Just the sense of a shape where there wasn't one before. Bob doesn't look back. Petunia doesn't either. But her growl, low and constant, tells him everything he needs to know.