The dirt under Petunia's claws is still cold from last night. She digs with a rhythm that doesn't sound like play—no pause, no snort, no glance back at Bob to check if he's watching. Just the wet thud of earth hitting earth, the scrape of stone, the ragged panting that's starting to sound like a sob. Bob grabs her collar. "Petunia. Stop." She doesn't stop. Her front paws are raw, the black fur matted with soil and something darker. She whines—low, urgent, a sound Bob has only heard twice before. Once when she found him after he fell through the ice. Once when she stood between him and the thing that hummed in the Whitfield barn. He pulls harder. She resists for one heartbeat, two—then collapses against his chest, trembling. Her muzzle is wet. Her eyes don't leave the hole. Bob peers into it. Nothing. Just dark earth, a few roots, a broken piece of what looks like old ceramic. He reaches down and picks it up. It's warm. Not from the sun—it hasn't seen sunlight in years. It's warm like it was held. He turns it over in his palm. A symbol. One he's seen before. Petunia whines again, her nose pressing into his hand, pushing the shard until it nearly falls. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay. I see it." But he doesn't see. Not yet. The shard hums faintly against his skin, and somewhere in the valley, a light flickers in a window that should be dark.