The creek runs low this time of year, barely covering the tops of the smooth gray stones that line the bed. Bob finds a flat one, worn by years of water, and holds it up so the light catches its edge. "Okay, Petunia. Watch." He flicks his wrist. The stone skips once, twice, three times before sinking into a pool downstream. Petunia's head tilts. Her tail wags once, uncertain. Bob picks up another stone. He kneels beside her, placing it in her mouth gently. She holds it like it might break. He takes her massive paw and guides it through the motion—a slow, clumsy arc that ends with the stone plopping straight down at her feet. She looks at the splash. Then at Bob. Her tail wags faster. "You almost had it," he says. She tries again. And again. Each time, the stone sinks. Each time, her tail wags harder. Bob laughs—a quiet, surprised sound he hasn't heard from himself in days. He sits back on the bank, and Petunia climbs out to flop beside him, water dripping from her thick black coat onto his sweatshirt. He doesn't move away. For a moment, the only sound is the creek and a dog's heavy breathing. Then Bob pulls the device from his pocket. It's warm, even though he hasn't touched it in hours. The surface glows faintly, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Petunia's ears flatten. She whines low in her throat. Bob looks from the device to the darkening treeline beyond the creek. The hum is back—faint, but there. Like something waiting just out of sight. "I know," he whispers, slipping the device back into his pocket. "Not yet." He stands, and Petunia rises with him. They head back toward town, leaving the skipping stones where they fell.