The room is still dark when Bob feels it — a soft, warm pressure against his palm. He doesn't open his eyes. He knows what it is. He counts. One. Two. Three. Then he lets his fingers curl, brushing the thick, damp fur of Petunia's muzzle. She exhales, a long, slow breath that smells of earth and grass and the river that runs behind the orchard. He opens his eyes. The first light is barely blue, just a seam of it between the curtains. Petunia's face is inches from his, her dark eyes patient, watching. He wonders, sometimes, what she sees when she looks at him. If she sees the same boy she found three years ago, or if she notices the changes that even he can't name. She nudges his palm again — harder this time. He knows the routine. Left boot means short walk. Right boot means gone all day. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cold floorboards. Petunia pads to the door and waits, her tail a slow, heavy sweep. Bob pulls on his boots — the left one first, always. Her ears perk. He grabs his cap from the bedpost and settles it over his hair. She's already at the door, nose to the crack, breathing in the morning. He reaches for the knob, pauses. "You knew," he says quietly. "Before I even woke up. You knew it was a short day." She doesn't turn around. But her tail wags once, a soft thump against the doorframe. He opens the door, and they step out together into the cool, damp air. The grass is wet. The trees at the edge of the property are still shapes in the fog. Petunia moves ahead, her nose to the ground, then stops. She looks back at him, waiting. Not for a command. For something else. Bob catches up, and they walk side by side into the white morning, the world half-hidden, the path unknown. Somewhere ahead, something hums. Petunia's ears swivel. Bob's hand finds her head, and they keep walking.