The dirt is cold against Bob's fingertips. He traces the edge of the print—too large, too sharp, the toes ending in points that no animal in Okanogan should have. Petunia's growl rumbles up from somewhere deep, a sound Bob has only heard twice before: once when a bear wandered too close to the porch, and once when the sky turned green and the power went out for three days. He doesn't shush her. Instead, he presses his palm flat into the center of the print. It's warm. Not sun-warm, not ground-warm. Something else. Like the heat that rises off Johnny's amps after a long set. Petunia's nose follows his hand, her massive head blocking the dawn light. She sniffs once. Twice. Then her tail goes still. Bob looks up at the treeline. The pines are thick there, shadows pooled beneath them even now, with the sun just cresting the ridge. Nothing moves. No birds. No wind. Just the weight of something waiting. "I know," he whispers, and Petunia presses her shoulder against his. Her fur is damp with dew. He pulls out the old compass Johnny gave him—the one with the face that glows faintly even in daylight. The needle doesn't point north. It spins in slow, lazy circles, then settles on the treeline. On whatever is watching. Bob stands. Petunia stands with him. The print will be gone by noon, scuffed away by the day's errands. But he'll remember the shape of it. The way the earth had been pressed down, not just imprinted—like something heavy had stood there for a long, long time, deciding whether to step forward. He takes one step toward the trees. Petunia whines, low and questioning. "Just a little closer," he says. Behind them, the porch light clicks on. Johnny's silhouette fills the door. But Bob doesn't turn around. He's watching a single feather drift down from the highest branch—black, iridescent, catching the dawn like oil on water. Petunia's growl starts again. This time, Bob doesn't stop her.