The fog came in off the valley before dawn, rolling over the orchards like a slow tide. Petunia sat at the edge of the yard where the grass met the dirt road, her breath curling into the cold air. The baseball was between her paws, scuffed leather dark with moisture. She had found it three years ago at the shelter, buried in a bin of toys nobody touched. It was the first thing she carried out the door when Bob adopted her. She never chewed it. Never chased it. She just kept it close, like a promise she couldn't forget. Bob watched from the kitchen window, coffee mug warm in his hands. He'd never asked why she carried that ball. Some questions felt wrong to ask, like they'd break something important. She placed her paw flat on the ball and stared into the fog. There was something in the mist today that made her ears go flat. Something that hummed low in the distance, just below hearing, like a wire vibrating underground. She didn't growl. She didn't move. She just pressed her weight into the baseball and waited. Somewhere beyond the fog, a light flickered. Once. Twice. Not a house light. Not a car. Something green, pulsing slow like a heartbeat. Petunia's tail touched the ground once. A signal. Bob set down his coffee.