The dirt is cold against Bob's knees. Petunia's nose hovers an inch above the ground, her breath fogging in the night air. She's been like this for three minutes now—stock-still, ears pinned flat, her massive black body a statue in the yard. Bob reaches out and brushes aside a layer of dead leaves. Something catches the light from the kitchen window. A curve of glass, or maybe metal, half-sunk into the soil. It pulses. A slow, rhythmic glow, like a heartbeat translated into light. His fingers close around it. It's warm. Warmer than the earth around it. He lifts it free—a smooth, palm-sized disc, no thicker than a phone, with a surface that seems to shift between translucent and solid. The glow intensifies for a second, then settles into a steady throb. Petunia whines. A low, worried sound he's only heard her make twice before. Once during the thunderstorm that knocked out the power for three days. Once when she found that dead thing under the porch that he never told anyone about. Bob glances toward the house. Johnny's silhouette moves past the kitchen window, guitar in hand, oblivious. The light from the disc casts a blue stain across Bob's palm. He looks at Petunia. She looks back, her brown eyes catching the glow, unblinking. "We don't tell anyone about this yet," he whispers. Petunia's tail gives a single, slow wag. Agreement. Or warning. He can't tell. Bob slides the disc into his sweatshirt pocket. It's warm against his thigh. He stands, brushes the dirt from his knees, and walks back toward the house with Petunia at his heel. The light from the kitchen spills across the grass. Behind them, in the patch of disturbed earth, something else shifts. A faint crack. A breath of air. A sound like the first note of a song no one's ever heard. But Bob doesn't turn around. Not yet.