The floorboards groaned under Petunia's weight as she circled the semicircle for the third time. A rib bone, a knuckle, a femur—each placed with a precision that made Bob's stomach tighten. He'd watched her do this every morning for a week. Same spot. Same order. If one bone was off by even a paw's width, she'd stop, nudge it back, and start again. "What are you doing, girl?" Bob whispered from the doorway, his breath fogging the cool air. Petunia didn't look up. Her tail stayed still. Her ears were pinned back, listening—not to him, but to something else. Something that lived in the spaces between the bones. Bob stepped onto the porch, barefoot, the wood cold against his soles. He crouched beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her thick black coat. "You're not just playing, are you?" Petunia's nose hovered over the center of the semicircle. A low vibration hummed through the floorboards. Bob felt it in his teeth. Then she sat. Heavy. Final. And stared at the empty space inside the arc. Bob followed her gaze. There was nothing there. Just worn wood, a few splinters, a curl of paint. But Petunia's eyes were locked on that spot like it held the whole world. He reached out and touched the wood. It was warm. Warmer than the air. Warmer than the porch should be. "What's down there?" Petunia's jaw opened slightly, and she let out a single, soft whine. Not a warning. Not a greeting. A call. From somewhere beneath the house, something answered. A click. A scrape. Like a lock turning in a door that had never been opened. Bob pulled his hand back. The warmth faded. Petunia stood, picked up the rib bone gently between her teeth, and carried it to the edge of the porch. She dropped it over the side. It hit the dirt and disappeared into the shadows. She looked back at Bob. Her eyes said: follow. And Bob, heart hammering, stepped off the porch into the dark. The bones remained in their semicircle, waiting for tomorrow. But what had answered from below—that would not wait. Somewhere in Okanogan, a guitar string snapped. Johnny Maverick sat up in bed, sweat cold on his skin. He'd dreamed of a dog and a boy and a hole in the ground that breathed. He reached for his phone. No signal. In the corner of his room, a single feather lay on the floor. It hadn't been there when he went to sleep.