The green screen ripples in the breeze, a rectangle of impossible color pinned between two apple trees. Bob stands in front of it, phone propped on a stack of cinder blocks, the remix already thumping tinny through the speaker. Petunia sits at the edge of the frame, head tilted, ears perked. She watches him like she's trying to understand something. He hits the button on the filter — skeleton bones overlay his sweatshirt, glowing white against the olive green. He starts moving, loose and unselfconscious, the way only a kid alone in his backyard can dance. His feet shuffle in the dirt. His arms swing. The skeleton arms lag behind by half a beat. Petunia's tail thumps the ground. Then she barks. Once. Twice. In time. Bob laughs, almost loses the rhythm, catches it again. He points at her. "You got moves, girl?" She barks again, and he nods, serious, still dancing. "Alright then. We're a duo." The sun drops behind the ridge. The green screen glows a little brighter than it should. Bob doesn't notice. Petunia does. Her bark falters for half a second. She looks past the screen, past the fence, toward the treeline where the light doesn't reach. Then Bob spins, and her eyes snap back to him. She barks again. The beat goes on.