Bob's fingers stop an inch above the grass. The glint winks at him — a sliver of silver no bigger than a guitar pick, half-swallowed by morning dew. Petunia's ribcage presses into his knee, solid and warm, but she doesn't nudge for attention. She's watching the grass. He parts the blades with his other hand. The metal is smooth, unmarked, warm to the touch despite the cold ground. He lifts it. It weighs nothing. It weighs everything. Behind him, a car door opens. Johnny Maverick's boots crunch on gravel. 'You found something.' Not a question. Bob turns the sliver over. A symbol catches the light — three concentric circles, the outer one broken. The same symbol from the device under the floorboard. The same one Petunia clawed into the wall. 'It's warm,' Bob says. Johnny kneels beside him. The rockstar's voice drops. 'Because it's still sending.' Bob looks at Petunia. She's stopped growling. Her tail wags once, slow, deliberate. She knows something. She always does. Johnny pulls out a small handheld scanner. The screen lights up with a glyph Bob has never seen — and one Johnny has. The scanner beeps. The sliver in Bob's palm pulses, once, in answer. 'What did you find, kid?' Bob doesn't answer. He's staring at the field. The grass is still. The air is still. But the humming — the same low thrum he's heard in his bones all week — has spread. It's coming from every direction now. Petunia whines. Not at the field. At the sky.