The dirt here is different. Darker. Loose, like something recently turned. Bob kneels, his knees pressing into the cold earth, and Petunia presses against his side, her massive body a wall of warmth and tension. He sees it before he touches it—a sliver of metal, no bigger than his palm, half-submerged near the rusted fence line of the old Whitfield place. It shouldn't be here. Nothing should be here but weeds and forgotten things. He scrapes the soil away with his fingers. The metal is warm. Not like sun-warmed metal. Deeper. Alive. A faint vibration hums through his palm and up his arm, settling somewhere behind his ribs. It feels like a note held too long. Like the air before a storm. Petunia whines low in her throat. Her ears are flat. She's not looking at the device—she's looking past it, at the treeline beyond the fence, where the light doesn't seem to reach the way it should. Bob turns the object over. No seams. No buttons. Just smooth, dark metal with a single groove running its length, like a channel for something invisible. The hum shifts—drops a half-step, then rises again. A melody he almost knows. He thinks of Johnny's guitar. Of the way Johnny's fingers find notes that shouldn't exist, notes that make the air feel thicker. Bob's breath fogs in front of his face. It's not cold enough for that. Petunia nudges his arm. Hard. Her tail is tucked now. She stares at the treeline and growls—a sound Bob has never heard from her before. Deep. Certain. He shoves the device into his pocket. It's still warm. Still humming. And somewhere, in the direction Petunia won't stop watching, a light flickers between the trees. Not a flashlight. Not a house. Something moving. Bob stands. Petunia stays low, braced. The hum in his pocket syncs with his heartbeat. 'Okay,' he whispers. 'Okay.' He doesn't know what he's agreeing to. But the song in his pocket knows.