The wood grain under Bob's fingers is familiar. He's traced it a hundred times, the same spiral pattern near the knot, the same splinter that catches his thumb if he's not careful. The envelope in his other hand is soft at the edges, creased from being folded and unfolded and folded again. He's never opened it. Petunia's head is heavy on his knee. Her breath comes slow, warm, a steady rhythm against his jeans. He can feel the slight tremor in her jowl when she exhales, the way she sometimes sighs like she's carrying something he can't see. The road is empty. It's been empty for three days now, ever since the last survey truck rumbled past and didn't come back. The fog is rolling in from the river, the kind that settles into the orchard rows and turns the trees into silhouettes. Bob's thumb moves to the corner of the envelope, presses down, feels the glue hold. He doesn't pull. Petunia's ear flicks. A sound. Faint. Down the road, maybe a quarter mile. Not an engine. Not footsteps. A low hum, barely there, the kind of sound you feel in your chest before you hear it. Petunia's head lifts. Her ears go forward. The hum stops. Bob looks at the envelope. The return address is smudged, but he knows it by heart. "From the Office of the Tomorrow Initiative — Okanogan Valley Division." He's never told anyone he received it. Not Johnny. Not Aliyah. Not even Petunia, though she knows. She always knows. The hum starts again. Closer this time. Bob tucks the envelope into his sweatshirt pocket and stands. Petunia stands with him, her shoulder pressing against his leg. Together, they step off the porch and into the fog.