The screen door doesn't squeak if you pull it slow. Bob knows this because he's counted—three seconds from latch to closure, the same rhythm every morning. He stands barefoot on the cold linoleum, watching Petunia through the glass. She's already there. Same spot. Her massive black frame silhouetted against the gray-blue of early morning, the grass still bent from her paws settling into the same divot she's worn over the past week. Her tail wags once—a slow, heavy sweep—then goes still. Bob presses his palm to the glass. She doesn't look back. He's asked her before, in the way you ask a dog something you know they can't answer. What is it? What do you see? She'd only turned her head, her soulful brown eyes meeting his with that patient Newfoundland gaze that seemed to hold more than affection—something older, something watchful. At 6:49, the air shifts. The dew on the grass seems to catch a light that hasn't arrived yet, a brief phosphorescence that runs through the blades like a current. Bob blinks. It's gone. Petunia exhales—a long, slow breath—and finally turns, padding back toward the door. She nudges it open with her nose, her wet muzzle brushing Bob's hand. Her tail wags once more, this time with warmth, as if to say: Not yet. But soon. Bob doesn't ask. He just opens the door wider and follows her inside, where the coffee is almost ready and the day hasn't quite decided what it will become. But the scent in the dew—he can almost taste it now. Something floral. Something metallic. Something that shouldn't be here, in the orchards of Okanogan, at the edge of a world that hasn't realized it's about to change.