The fog had swallowed Okanogan whole. Bob could barely see Petunia beside him, just the dark shape of her massive frame moving through the white. The dew soaked through his sneakers, cold against his ankles. They found Johnny at the edge of the Whitfield property, standing motionless where the old fence line had collapsed. He wasn't wearing a jacket. His guitar pick hand hung open, palm up. In it lay a small disc of metal, no bigger than a half-dollar, warm enough that Bob could see the air shimmer above it from three feet away. Petunia stopped. She sat down hard, her tail sweeping a clean arc through the dead grass. She didn't growl. She didn't whine. She just watched. "Johnny?" Bob's voice came out smaller than he wanted. Johnny didn't turn. "It was under the porch," he said. "Buried. But not deep. Like someone wanted it found." Bob stepped closer. The disc was etched with symbols—circles within circles, lines that seemed to shift when he blinked. "It's warm." "Been humming since I picked it up," Johnny said. "B-flat, if my ears still work." Petunia's head tilted. One ear cocked forward. She made a sound low in her throat—not a growl, not a whine. Something in between. Something Bob had never heard from her before. "She knows what it is," Bob said. Johnny finally looked down at the dog. His face was pale under the stubble. "Yeah. I think she does." Somewhere beyond the fog, a truck engine turned over and died. A dog barked once, then stopped. The disc in Johnny's hand pulsed—a single flash of light that threw shadows across all three of them and was gone. Petunia stood up. She turned her head toward the road, toward town, and waited. "She wants us to follow," Bob said. Johnny closed his fingers around the disc. The hum stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than any sound. "Then let's go," he said.