The porch light casts a weak amber halo into the yard, just enough to turn the grass a dusty gold at the edges. Bob sits on the top step, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his wrists. Petunia is doing her thing again. She starts at the apple tree near the fence. Three deliberate steps. A pause. Then a slow, careful circle, her massive black body arcing through the grass like she's tracing something only she can see. She completes the loop and starts another. One. Two. Three. Then she stops, shakes her whole body from nose to tail, and walks to the exact center of the yard. There she sits. Heavy. Final. Bob has watched this ritual every evening since she was a puppy. He's never asked why. Not because he doesn't wonder, but because some part of him already knows: she's not just circling. She's checking. Every time. Making sure the perimeter is still sound. Making sure nothing slipped through while they were inside. Tonight, she doesn't lie down right away. She stares at the far corner of the fence, where the shadows pool thickest. Her ears swivel forward. A low rumble starts in her chest, not quite a growl—more like a question. Bob follows her gaze. The fence is just fence. The grass is just grass. But the air feels heavier there, like something is standing in the dark, holding its breath. "What is it, girl?" he whispers. Petunia's tail gives one slow thump against the ground. She stands, walks to his side, and presses her wet nose into his palm. Then she lies down, finally, with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of the whole yard. Bob stays on the step long after she falls asleep. He's not watching the yard anymore. He's watching the spot she circled. Trying to see what she sees. Behind him, inside the house, a faint blue glow pulses from his backpack. Once. Twice. Then goes dark.