The grass is cold against his jeans. Bob kneels, one hand pressed flat to the damp earth, the other resting lightly on Petunia's back. She hasn't moved in nearly a minute—not a twitch, not a breath that he can feel. Just the dense weight of her body, muscles coiled under that thick black coat, her gaze locked on a gap between two apple trees maybe thirty yards away. He follows her line of sight. Nothing there. Just the gray-blue gloom of early morning, mist hanging in ribbons between the branches, the faint outline of the old fence line beyond. He squints. Listens. The only sound is his own breathing and the distant creak of a wind machine turning slow and lazy somewhere up the hill. "What is it, girl?" Her ears don't move. Her tail is frozen mid-wag, stiff as a board. That's not right. Petunia's tail never stops. Not when she's happy, not when she's nervous, not even when she's dead asleep—it twitches in her dreams. But right now it's still. Like she's forgotten she has one. He shifts his weight, leans closer to her shoulder. "Pet." A low rumble starts in her chest. Not a growl, exactly. Something deeper. A vibration he feels more than hears, like the bass note of a song he almost remembers. It travels up through his hand, into his arm, settles somewhere behind his ribs. The mist between the trees thickens. Or maybe it doesn't—maybe it's just the light changing, the sun still struggling to clear the ridge. But for a second, the gap looks different. Darker. Like something is pulling the shadows toward it, gathering them into a single point. Then it's gone. The mist thins, the light returns, and the space between the apple trees is just a space between apple trees again. Petunia blinks. Her tail wags once, hesitant, then stops again. Bob looks down at his hand. The one he pressed to the earth. There's a faint warmth in his palm, like he'd been holding a stone that soaked up the sun. But the sun isn't up yet. He stands slowly. Petunia rises with him, her body brushing against his leg. They stand there together, boy and dog, facing the empty space between two trees that suddenly feels less empty than it should. "We should go," he says. But he doesn't move. And Petunia doesn't either.