Bob crouches on the porch, phone angled at Petunia. The afternoon sun spills through the screen door, painting warm rectangles across the worn floorboards. "Okay, girl. Just one. Nice and still." Petunia's tail thumps twice. Her head tilts, ears flopping, and she takes a step forward. Her wet nose presses against the phone's lens, fogging it. Bob laughs, pulling the phone back and wiping it on his sleeve. "You're not helping." Petunia sits, but her eyes follow the phone like it's a treat. Bob lines up the shot again. "Ready?" She lunges, tongue out, and licks the camera. "Petunia!" He's laughing now, can't help it. He gives up on the photo and scratches behind her ears instead. She leans into his hand, heavy and warm. He looks at her, really looks. Dust motes float in the light between them. The town is quiet — just the hum of a distant truck, a crow calling from the orchard. "You know something," Bob says softly. "Don't you." Petunia's ears perk. Her gaze slides past him, toward the treeline where the light grows thin. She doesn't bark. She doesn't growl. She just watches. Bob follows her stare. Nothing moves. But the air feels heavier, like the whole valley is holding its breath. He pockets the phone. "Maybe later." Petunia rises, pads to the edge of the porch, and sits. Her nose lifts, tasting the wind. Bob stands beside her. The sun drops another inch. Somewhere, a screen door creaks. Something is coming. He can feel it in his chest, cold and certain. "We should tell Johnny," he says. Petunia's tail wags once. Agreement. They stand there, boy and dog, watching the dark gather in the trees. The photo can wait. The truth won't.