The last chord hangs in the cooling air. Bob's fingers rest on the fretboard, the wood still warm from his palm. Petunia's head is a steady weight on his knee, her ear flicking at a cricket's call. He stares past the porch rail into the darkening orchard. The apple trees stand in rows like old witnesses, their branches etched against a sky bleeding violet. A single light flickers on in the barn—Johnny's silhouette moving past a window. 'We've been looking in the wrong places,' Bob says. Not to Petunia, not to himself. To the space between. Petunia's tail thumps once. She doesn't lift her head. Bob sets the guitar aside and reaches into his pocket. His fingers close around the small device he found beneath the floorboard—cold metal, still humming with an almost-sound he can't name. He's traced the symbol etched into its casing a hundred times. It matches the one on Johnny's old tour posters, the one Lizard Lou sketched in the dirt, the one that appeared on Kiva's map. A triangle inside a circle. Inside another circle. They've been digging through Johnny's garage, through Kiva's journals, through Lou's half-coherent ramblings about time and taste. But the device isn't a clue. It's the destination. Bob looks at Petunia. Her brown eyes meet his, wet and deep. 'What if it's not about finding the secret?' he whispers. 'What if it's about finding where the secret's going?' Petunia's ears perk. A low whine forms in her throat. Across the field, a second light comes on in the barn. Johnny's silhouette stops. Turns. Waves. Bob stands. The device grows warm in his palm. 'Come on, girl,' he says. 'Let's go find out.' Petunia rises, pressed against his leg as they step off the porch. The grass is damp with dew. The stars are coming out, one by one. Behind them, the guitar leans where Bob left it. A single string still humming.