The dirt was cool and damp against Petunia's paws. She had found it by accident—a faint pulse beneath the surface, like a heartbeat underground. She stopped. Sat. The tail that usually wagged at the slightest breeze went still. The object hummed. Not loud. Just enough to feel in her chest. Bob was inside, pouring kibble into her bowl. He would call her soon. She knew the rhythm of his voice, the way he leaned against the counter when he was thinking. But she didn't move. Couldn't. The glow was soft, greenish—like the light that bled from Johnny's guitar case that night behind the diner. Same frequency. Same ache in the air. She remembered the beetle under her water bowl. The warm device Bob had pried from her dish. The circles in the grass. The map he unfolded only when he thought she wasn't watching. This was different. This one had been buried deeper. Hidden longer. A gust of wind moved through the orchard, shaking the last light from the leaves. Petunia's ears flicked, but her eyes never left the glow. Her tail stayed pressed to the dirt. She didn't bark. Didn't whine. She just waited. Inside, Bob called her name. She didn't answer. The dirt shifted around the object. A crack. A hiss. The hum climbed half a note. Petunia's front legs tensed. Something was about to surface—and she would meet it first.