The dirt road stretched empty between two rows of apple trees, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel. Bob's sneakers scuffed to a halt. Petunia's growl rumbled low in her chest, her massive black body blocking his path. He saw it then—Johnny Maverick's guitar case, lying open in the middle of the road like a dropped promise. The velvet interior was dark blue, worn at the edges. And inside, where there should have been a gleaming six-string, there was only a single silver key and a piece of paper. Bob's hand trembled as he reached for the note. The handwriting was jagged, hurried: Don't tell the lizard. Petunia whined, her nose hovering over the key. Bob turned it over in his palm. No markings. No serial number. Just cold metal that seemed to hold the temperature of the shade. "Who left this?" Bob whispered. Petunia's ears flattened. She looked back down the road, toward town, then up at Bob with those deep brown eyes that always seemed to know more than she could say. Bob pocketed the key. The note he folded twice, three times, until it was a tight square against his thigh. He closed the guitar case and carried it to the edge of the road, setting it against a fence post where Johnny would find it. But as he turned to leave, he caught a glint from inside the case—a faint, phosphorescent glow where the key had rested. He blinked, and it was gone. Petunia pressed against his leg, warm and solid. Together they walked back toward the orchard, the silver key heavy in Bob's pocket, the note's warning burning in his mind. Don't tell the lizard. But what if the lizard already knew?