Dawn hadn't broken so much as it had leaked—a pale, reluctant light seeping through the fog that had rolled in overnight. Bob's knees pressed into the damp earth at the edge of the dirt road, the cold seeping through the denim of his jeans. He didn't feel it. The tracks were wrong. He'd learned to read the ground from his father years ago—deer, coyote, the occasional bear. But these weren't any of those. They pressed too deep for the weight that made them. The spacing was too uniform, too deliberate. And at the center of each print, a faint impression, like a symbol he couldn't quite make out. Petunia stood rigid beside him. Her tail, usually a slow, happy metronome, hung motionless. Her ears were forward, her massive chest barely moving as she breathed. She only did that when she'd found something she couldn't explain. Bob reached out and touched the edge of one print. The soil was warm. "You see this?" he whispered. Petunia didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the fog, on whatever lay beyond it. A low rumble started in her chest—not quite a growl, not quite a whine. The sound she made when something was wrong and she didn't have the words for it. Bob pulled his hand back. The warmth clung to his fingers. He stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees. The fog had swallowed the road ahead, turning the familiar landscape into a blank page. Somewhere out there, the tracks continued. And something at the end of them was waiting. He looked down at Petunia. Her gaze finally met his. "We follow," he said. "But slow." She nudged his hand once—her version of agreement—and stepped forward into the white. Bob fell in behind her, his heart beating a rhythm he didn't recognize. The warmth in his fingers didn't fade.