The floorboards creak under Petunia's weight as she pads into her corner of Bob's room. She's been carrying something in her mouth all day—a cassette tape, grimy with soil, its label worn to nothing. She found it near the old fence line in Johnny's backyard, where the grass grows wild and the birds never sing. Bob is asleep. His breathing is soft, even. Petunia watches him for a long moment, then lowers her head to the tape. She nudges it with her nose. The first time she heard it, she was alone. A voice—scratchy, distant—spoke words she couldn't understand. But the tone… the tone made her fur stand on end. It was a warning. She knows it. She presses play. The tape whirs. A low hum fills the room, like something breathing just beneath the floor. Petunia's ears flatten. Her tail curls tight. The voice returns: slow, deliberate, certain. "The boy should not know. Not yet. The dog understands." Petunia looks at Bob. His face is peaceful in the dark. She does not wake him. She curls around the tape, a silent guardian of a secret she carries alone. Outside, the wind picks up. Something brushes against the window. A shadow passes. Petunia's growl is barely audible, a vibration in her chest that the tape cannot drown. She will not let it near him. Not tonight. But the tape plays on, and the voice keeps speaking—low, certain, absolute.