The beetle sat in Bob's palm, motionless now. Its legs were folded tight against a carapace of brushed steel, no thicker than a thumbnail. The green eyes had dimmed to a faint pulse, like a distant star trying to decide whether to blink out or burn brighter. Petunia hadn't taken her eyes off it. She stood rigid, her massive Newfoundland frame blocking the kitchen doorway, tail low and still. Her whine had been short — a single note, cut off before it could become a bark. Bob knew that sound. It was the same one she made when a stranger walked the fence line after dark. "It's okay, girl," he whispered, but his own voice betrayed him. The words came out thin, unconvincing. He turned the beetle over. Its underside was smooth except for a single seam running lengthwise, so fine it could have been a scratch. Bob pressed his thumb against it. Nothing. He brought it closer to his face, and the green eyes flickered — once, twice — then steadied, brighter than before. Petunia whined again, louder this time. She took a step forward and nudged his hand with her muzzle, hard enough to knock the beetle loose. It clattered onto the linoleum and lay still. The eyes went dark. Bob knelt. Petunia pressed her warm head against his chest, blocking his view. She was trembling. "What do you know that I don't?" he asked softly. She looked at him then — her brown eyes wide, unblinking — and for a moment, Bob had the unsettling feeling that she was trying to tell him something she wasn't allowed to say. Outside, the wind picked up. The kitchen light flickered. Bob scooped the beetle into his pocket and stood. Petunia followed, her shoulder pressed against his leg, matching his stride step for step. They went to the back door together. Bob opened it. The yard was dark, the trees at the edge of the property swaying in a rhythm that felt wrong — not quite synchronized with the wind. Somewhere in the orchard, a light blinked once. Green. Bob's hand went to his pocket. The beetle was warm again.