Bob's knees press into the cold earth. The grass here is brittle, yellowed, as if the ground itself has given up. Petunia stands rigid beside him, her massive chest rumbling with a growl so low it feels more like the earth vibrating than a sound. Her eyes are fixed on a patch of dirt. Just dirt. Packed, cracked, ordinary. But she won't stop. She won't look at him. Bob touches her shoulder. The fur there is warm, stiff. "What is it, girl?" She doesn't answer. Of course she doesn't. But her tail, that thick black rudder, gives one slow thump against his leg. Not fear. Warning. He looks at the dirt again. Nothing. Then he sees it. A faint impression. Not a footprint — too wide, too shallow, with edges that seem to dissolve into the soil rather than end. He traces it with his finger. The dirt is cooler here. Damp. He lifts his hand and smells it. Iron. Old metal. Wet stone. Petunia's growl deepens, and Bob feels it in his chest. He looks up. The Whitfield house is a dark silhouette against the fading sky. No lights. No movement. But something about the way the shadow falls makes his stomach clench. He's been here a dozen times. It never looked like this. Like the house is leaning away from something. Like the land itself remembers what happened here. He stands, brushing the dirt from his knee. Petunia presses against his leg, solid and warm. "Okay," he says, his voice too quiet. "Okay." He takes a step toward the house. Petunia whines once, low, but follows. Behind them, the patch of dirt settles. The coolness fades. By morning, it will look like every other patch of dirt. But Bob won't forget. The Möbius Ball in his pocket hums, just barely, like a whisper.