The house settled into its nightly quiet around 11pm. By 1am, even the crickets had stopped. Petunia had not moved. She stood in the doorway of Bob's room, her massive black frame filling the frame like a shadow given weight. Her head was low, ears forward, eyes fixed on the small mound of blankets where Bob breathed slow and even. Two hours. Her tail did not wag. Her chest did not rise with the deep, contented sighs that usually followed a long day of exploring. She was stone, except for the slight twitch of her left ear—the one with the fresh scratch. She had found it in the woods, just beyond the tree line where the grass grew in a perfect circle. She had not barked. She had simply turned and walked home, blood drying on her fur, and taken her post. Bob shifted in his sleep. Petunia's muscles tensed. She could still smell it. Not earth, not wood, not animal. Something metallic and clean, like ozone after a storm. Something that made the hackles rise along her spine even now, in the safety of this room. Bob's hand fell over the edge of the bed. Petunia watched it dangle. She took one step forward. Then stopped. There was a hum. Very faint. Coming from outside—or from inside the walls. She couldn't tell. But it was there, threading through the silence like a needle. She lowered her head, rested her chin on Bob's mattress, and let out a breath. She would not sleep tonight. Something was coming. And she would be here, in this doorway, when it arrived.