The porch boards are cold through Bob's socks. He sits on the edge, one foot on the ground, the other dangling. Petunia is already in position—haunches squared, front paws neatly together, head tilted just enough to catch the first light. She watches his hands. Bob yawns, rubs his face, and reaches down. His fingers brush the left boot first—scuffed at the toe, laces loose from yesterday. Petunia's tail stays still. Her eyes don't leave him. Then his hand moves right. A soft thump. Petunia's tail sweeps the porch once, twice. She rises, steps closer, presses her cold nose against his knee. He doesn't have to say a word. She already knows: they're going all the way today. The fog is burning off the orchard when they reach the fence line. Bob pulls the gate open—rusted hinge singing its usual complaint—and Petunia slips through ahead of him, nose to the ground, following a trail only she can read. They walk past the old incinerator, past the collapsed shed where the roof caved in last winter, past the stand of pines that marks the boundary of the Whitfield property. Bob doesn't ask where they're going. He learned long ago that Petunia's routes aren't random. She stops at the base of a young oak. The bark is smooth in a patch the size of a hand—unnaturally smooth, like it's been sanded. Bob kneels. Petunia presses her nose against his palm, then looks up at him with those dark, patient eyes. "This new?" he whispers. She doesn't answer. But she doesn't move either. Bob runs his fingers over the smooth patch. It's warm. Not from the sun—the sun hasn't reached this part of the orchard yet. The warmth is coming from inside the bark. He pulls his hand back. Petunia whines, low and questioning. "Yeah," Bob says, standing. "I felt it." He looks toward the ridge where the Whitfield house sits, dark against the brightening sky. Something is happening. Something that started before they woke up. Something that's been waiting. Petunia nuzzles his hand again. Then she turns and heads deeper into the orchard, toward the line where the trees thin out and the valley opens up. Bob follows. Because the right boot always means they're going all the way.