The scrap was crumpled, the edges damp with Petunia's saliva. Bob smoothed it flat on his knee. The symbol was hand-drawn in what looked like charcoal—a spiral that hooked into a broken circle, three dots clustered at the base. He knew it. He'd drawn it himself a thousand times as a kid, in the margins of his notebooks, on the back of his hand in ballpoint pen. His mother had called it his "secret language." His father had called it a waste of time. "Where'd you find this?" he whispered. Petunia's tail wagged once, then stopped. She turned her massive head toward the orchard, ears pricked. Bob followed her gaze. The trees were still. The air was still. But the light between the trunks had a weight to it, a thickness that didn't belong in the late afternoon. He pressed the scrap into his pocket and stood. Eleven years since he left the city. Eleven years since he'd last seen that symbol. And now it was here, in Okanogan, on a piece of dirty paper, held in the jaws of his dog. He didn't believe in coincidences. He believed in Petunia. And Petunia was already walking toward the trees. He followed. The light between the trunks began to pulse. Not bright. Not fast. Just a steady, patient rhythm—like a heartbeat waiting to be answered.