The grass didn't die. It was erased. Bob knelt at the edge of the circle, the smell of scorched earth rising in waves. The line between living grass and bare dirt was too clean — a perfect circumference drawn by something that didn't need a compass. Petunia stood behind him, her massive Newfoundland frame planted like a stone. She wouldn't come closer. Not a step. Her tail had stopped moving the moment they rounded the Whitfield house. Bob pressed his palm to the ground. Warm. Not hot — warm, like a stove that had been on an hour ago. He pulled his hand back and looked at his fingers. No ash. No residue. Just clean dirt that held heat like a memory. "Pet," he said softly. "Come here. Smell this." She whined. Low in her throat. The sound he knew meant no. Bob looked up at the old Whitfield place — boarded windows, a porch that sagged in the middle, a weather vane that hadn't turned in years. Nobody had lived here since before he was born. But the dirt was warm. And the circle was too perfect. He pulled his phone out. No signal. Not unusual out here, except he'd had full bars at the end of the driveway. "Okay," he said, more to himself than to Petunia. "I'm going to step in." Petunia barked once. Sharp. Final. Bob froze. She never barked at him. He turned. She was staring past him — not at the circle, but at the house. At a second-story window that had been dark a moment ago. Now there was light. A faint, pulsing green. Code: S9LDLVU4