Dawn broke over the orchard like a held breath. The first light slipped through the apple trees, painting long gold stripes across the wet grass. Bob found Petunia already awake, sitting rigid at the edge of the yard, her massive black frame outlined against the paling sky. Her tail didn't wag when he approached. "What is it, girl?" He crouched beside her, one hand finding the thick fur of her neck. Her muscles were tight, coiled. Her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon. Then he saw it — a single feather, iridescent as oil on water, caught in the leather of her collar. He touched it. It was warm. Up at the house, a window banged open. Johnny Maverick stood in the frame, squinting into the dawn, a coffee mug halfway to his lips. His eyes found Bob, found the feather, found Petunia's frozen stance. The mug slipped. It hit the porch boards and exploded into white shards. "Bob," Johnny said, his voice rough from sleep and something else. "Don't touch that." But Bob's fingers were already closed around the feather. A hum began at his fingertips, traveled up his arm, settled behind his eyes like a second heartbeat. The orchard flickered — for a split second, he saw the trees as lines of light, the sky as a net of frequency. Then it was gone. Petunia whined. The sound was low, almost human. Johnny was crossing the yard now, barefoot, ignoring the broken mug. He took Bob's wrist gently, turned the feather over in the growing light. His face was pale. "I've seen this before," Johnny said. "On a guitar case I buried twelve years ago. Under the floorboards of a motel in Tonopah." Bob looked up at him. The hum was still there, a thread pulling from somewhere far away. "What is it?" Johnny's grip tightened. "It's a calling card. And it means they know we're here." Beyond the orchard, a line of dust rose from the main road. Not a truck. Something lower, faster. Something coming their way.