The woods had gone still. Not the kind of still that means peace—the kind that means everything is listening. Bob’s knees pressed into damp earth as he stared at the thing half-buried in the moss. It was small, no bigger than his fist, and it hummed. A low, steady note, like a single string held forever. He reached out. Petunia’s growl cut through the air. Low. Rumbling. A warning that started in her chest and vibrated through his ribs where her head pressed against his arm. “I’m not touching it yet,” he whispered. She didn’t stop growling. The device pulsed—soft, amber, then blue. The symbols on its surface shifted, rearranged themselves like water finding its level. Bob had seen a lot of strange things since Johnny Maverick’s bus rolled into town. Warm picks under oak trees. Coins by wells. Claw marks inside his own wall. But this was different. This thing wasn’t lost. It was waiting. He pulled his hand back. The symbols stopped moving. Petunia’s growl faded to a whine, and she pushed her nose into his palm, warm and wet. “Yeah,” Bob said, his voice barely a breath. “I feel it too.” Somewhere in the distance, a truck door slammed. A dog barked. The normal world was still out there. But here, in the darkening woods, something else was waking up. The device hummed on. And Bob knew—he was going to have to pick it up. Just not tonight.