Bob's fingers brush away the last of the dry soil. The disc is cold at first, then warm—like it's been holding the day's heat long after the sun dropped behind the ridge. He turns it over. Symbols. Not scratched in. Grown into the metal. Etched from the inside out. Petunia's paw hovers near his wrist. She doesn't press. She waits. Her tail is still. "Where'd you find this?" Bob whispers. She doesn't answer. She never does. But her nose drops to the ground, tracing an invisible line toward the edge of the Whitfield property—the old place everyone says is haunted, though Bob's never seen anything there but rust and thistle. He rubs his thumb across the disc. The symbols catch the last light. One of them looks like a tree. Or a river. Or maybe a hand reaching up. Petunia whines. Low. A sound Bob has learned means: pay attention. He stands. The disc is heavier than it should be. He slips it into his sweatshirt pocket and feels it settle against his chest like a second heartbeat. "Okay," he says. "Show me." Petunia turns and walks. Not toward the Whitfield house. Past it. Beyond the barbed wire fence where the irrigation canal bends into darkness. Bob follows, counting steps. At forty-seven, the hum begins. It's the same frequency as the disc. He stops. Petunia stops. Ahead, the grass grows in a perfect circle. Inside the circle, the dirt is warm. Bob pulls the disc out. It's glowing now—soft green, the color of new leaves. "I think we're supposed to go in," he says. Petunia sits. She doesn't move. Bob steps forward. The hum deepens. Somewhere beyond the circle, something shifts in the dark.