The fog sat low over the orchard, a gray blanket that muffled every sound. Bob's sneakers were wet with dew, the grass cold against his ankles. He knelt, the damp seeping through the knee of his jeans, and Petunia came to him without a sound. Her head was massive, warm, and heavy. He rested his palm on her skull, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing. The fog clung to her black fur like breath on glass. She turned, nudging his hand with her nose, pressing into his palm as if she were trying to push a secret through his skin. He leaned close, his lips near her ear. "I know," he whispered. "I know you see things I can't." She didn't bark. Didn't whine. Just pressed harder, her dark eyes fixed on something beyond the fog line. He followed her gaze but saw only shifting gray, the shapes of apple trees fading in and out like ghosts. His hand came away from her fur warm, and for a moment he thought he felt a pulse beneath his palm that wasn't hers. Low. Humming. Like a wire strung tight underground. Petunia's tail gave one slow sweep across the wet grass. Then she sat, heavy and patient, waiting. Bob stayed beside her. The fog didn't lift. But the hum under his hand grew a little louder, a little closer, and he knew — without knowing how — that something was coming. Something that had been waiting for them both. He pulled the worn guitar pick from his pocket, the one he'd found three mornings ago. It was warm against his thumb. Petunia watched it, then looked back at the fog. "Yeah," Bob said quietly. "I think so too." The orchard held its breath. Somewhere in the gray, a bird called once, then stopped.