The road was empty. Not a car in sight. Just dust settling in the long orange light of a dying afternoon. Bob had been walking Petunia along the gravel shoulder, the way they did every day after school, when she stopped. Not a slow-down, not a pause. A full stop, like she'd hit a wall. Her massive head went low. Her tail, usually a slow, happy pendulum, went rigid and still. "What is it, girl?" Bob whispered. He knew better than to pull her leash. Petunia only stopped like this when something was wrong. And she was never wrong. She took a slow step forward, then another, her massive paws silent on the warm asphalt. Bob followed, his heart beating a little faster. In the middle of the road, just past the faded center line, something lay in the dust. It wasn't there before. He'd have seen it. It was about the size of a football, made of a smooth, dark metal that didn't seem to match any car part he'd ever seen. It was humming. A low, steady note, like a distant power line. Petunia sniffed it once. Then she sat down. Bob knelt. The metal was warm. Not hot, but warmer than the road, like it had been sitting in the sun all day. But it hadn't. He looked closer. Symbols covered its surface—intricate, flowing lines that seemed to shift and re-form at the edge of his vision. When he stared directly at one, it stayed still. When he blinked, it had moved. "Okay," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Okay, I see it." Petunia whined low in her throat. Not a warning. A confirmation. Bob reached out a hand. The humming grew louder. The symbols quickened. He stopped, his fingers an inch from the metal. And waited. The road was still empty. The sun was still setting. But something had changed. The world felt tighter, like a held breath. Bob didn't know what this thing was, or where it came from. But he knew, with a certainty that made his stomach drop, that it had been waiting for him. And that Petunia had known all along.