The garage smelled like motor oil and old leather. Johnny Maverick's touring van sat half-disassembled in the center, its engine parts laid out on a tarp like a patient under surgery. But Petunia wasn't interested in the van. She stood in the far corner, where the light from the grimy window barely reached. Her nose was pressed against a crack in the floorboards, and a low, rhythmic whine escaped her throat. Her tail hung still—not wagging, not tucked. Just still. Bob pushed through the side door, a bag of chips in one hand. "Pet? You okay?" She didn't look at him. That was wrong. Petunia always looked at him. Every time he entered a room, she met his eyes first, tail starting its slow sweep. But now her whole body was locked on whatever was beneath the floor. Bob knelt beside her. The floorboards were warped here, a gap between them wide enough to see darkness below. He pressed his ear to the wood. At first, nothing. Then a faint scratching. Deliberate. Almost rhythmic. He pulled his phone out and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the gap, revealing dirt and bits of gravel. Something small and fast darted sideways—too quick to see clearly. But the light caught a metallic glint. Not an animal. Not natural. Petunia whined again, deeper this time. She nudged Bob's hand with her nose, then looked back at the crack. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, the brown rim barely visible. "I know, girl." He sat back on his heels, heart thudding. Johnny's garage. Johnny's secret. There was something living under here, and it wasn't a rat. Bob stood slowly. He didn't call for Johnny. Not yet. He just watched the crack, listening to the scratching below, feeling the weight of something that had just crawled into their world without knocking.