The garage smells of old oil and dry wood. Dust hangs in the light from a single bare bulb swinging gently overhead, though the air is still. Bob's shadow stretches across the cracked concrete floor, pooling around the leather glove Petunia has just dropped. She sits now, her massive black form a quiet mountain against the cluttered workbench, her dark eyes fixed on him. One wag of her tail. Then nothing. Just waiting. Bob's hand hovers over the glove. It's cracked, stained, the fingers curled inward as if still holding something. He knows this glove. He remembers the day it disappeared. Three years ago, almost to the day. His father's hand had worn it smooth, the leather molded to a grip Bob had memorized. He'd watched him pull it on every morning before heading out to the orchards. 'Why Tuesdays?' Bob whispers. Petunia's ears shift. She doesn't answer. She never does. But her eyes never leave him. She has done this every Tuesday for three years. Same glove. Same spot. Same waiting. Bob has never asked why. He's never picked it up. But tonight, something is different. The leather looks darker. The faint scent of ozone clings to it. Bob's fingers touch the surface. It's warm. Not from the air. A low hum, almost imperceptible, vibrates through the leather into his skin. He looks at Petunia. She blinks once. Slow. He doesn't know what it means. But the hum is new. And it's growing.