The porch wood is cold through his jeans. Bob doesn't move. The guitar pick sits in his palm like a question he doesn't know how to ask. Petunia's head is heavy on his knee. She hasn't stirred in ten minutes. Her breathing is slow, steady, trusting. But her ears are swiveled forward — not toward him, toward the orchard. Bob turns the pick over. It's scratched. Worn. One edge chipped off like it caught something hard. Johnny Maverick's jacket pocket had been full of them. This one fell out when Johnny pulled the keys. Bob picked it up before he could think. Slid it into his own pocket. Didn't say anything. He doesn't play guitar. Never has. His fingers are too small, his patience too thin. His mother had bought him a ukulele once, when he was seven. It sat under his bed for three years before she gave it away. But this pick feels different. Wrong weight. Wrong shape. Almost like it was made for something else. Petunia's head lifts. A low rumble starts in her chest, not quite a growl. Her eyes fix on the tree line where the fog is starting to thin. Bob closes his fingers around the pick. The edges press into his palm. Something moves between the apple trees. A shape. A shadow that doesn't break with the light. Petunia stands. Her hackles rise. Bob stands with her. The pick is warm now, like it's been sitting in sun — but the sun hasn't touched the porch yet. He takes a step toward the yard. Petunia steps ahead of him. The shadow doesn't move. It waits. Bob's grip tightens. The pick hums. He doesn't know why he kept it. But he's starting to think it wasn't his choice.