The guitar sounds wrong. Bob knows it the moment his fingers find the strings — a dull, flattened chord that hangs in the damp air like something unfinished. He tries again, pressing harder, but the note bends the same way. Out of tune. Has been for days. He doesn't stop. Petunia’s head is a warm weight against his knee. Her breathing is slow, deep, her ribcage rising and falling beneath the thick black fur. She hasn't moved since they came out here. Just settled in and let the fog curl around them both. The porch boards are cold through Bob's jeans. The railing needs paint. He can see where the wood is splintering near the post where Petunia scratched last week — three parallel lines that weren't there before. He told himself it was a raccoon. He knows it wasn't. Somewhere in the orchard, a branch cracks. Petunia's ear swivels, but she doesn't lift her head. Not a threat. Not yet. Bob strums again. The chord hangs in the foggy air and dissolves. He thinks about Johnny's guitar — the one with the inlaid neck and the worn fretboard, the one he keeps in the case with the broken latch. Johnny played it once when he thought no one was watching. Bob heard it through the wall. It didn't sound wrong at all. It sounded like it knew something. Petunia shifts. Her tail thumps once against the porch. Bob looks down at her. Her brown eyes are open, watching the treeline where the fog is thickest. She isn't looking at him. She's looking past him. He stops playing. The silence that follows is heavier than the guitar ever was. "What is it?" he whispers. Petunia doesn't answer. She never does. But her head lifts, just slightly, and her ears angle forward toward the place where the fog meets the pines. There's something out there. There has been for days. Bob sets the guitar down. His hand finds Petunia's fur, fingers sinking into the warmth of her neck. The fog doesn't clear. It waits. So do they.