The forest floor hums. Petunia's growl starts low—a rumble Bob feels through the soles of his sneakers before he hears it. He's kneeling at the edge of a small clearing, where a patch of dirt has been disturbed. Something small and metallic lies in the center, half-buried in moss. The light pulses. Soft. Yellow-green. Like a firefly that forgot to move on. Bob reaches for it. Petunia's growl sharpens into a bark—loud, sudden, cutting through the evening air. She steps between Bob and the device, her massive black body blocking his view. Her tail is rigid. Her ears are flat against her skull. "It's okay, girl," Bob whispers, but his hand hesitates. Petunia whines. Not her usual whine—the one she makes when she wants dinner or when Bob's been gone too long. This is different. Higher. Thinner. A sound that doesn't belong in a dog's throat. Bob squints at the device. It's no bigger than his palm. Smooth. Seamless. No buttons, no seams, no brand mark. Just a surface that catches the light in ways that don't make sense—like it's drinking the dusk and giving it back changed. The humming shifts. A half-step up the scale. Bob feels it in his teeth. Petunia presses against his leg, pushing him backward. She's not scared. She's warning him. From somewhere deeper in the trees, a branch snaps. Bob looks up. The forest has gone still. No birds. No wind. Just the pulse, the hum, and Petunia's steady breath against his hand. "Okay," he says, standing slowly. "Okay. Not tonight." He backs away. Petunia stays between him and the device until they're twenty feet clear. Then she turns, nudges his palm, and leads him home through the darkening trees. Behind them, the pulse continues. Waiting.