The porch boards are cold through Bob's jeans. He's been sitting here since the first crack of light bled over the mountains, watching the same patch of yard where it hung last night—a soft, pulsing glow that didn't move like a lantern or a drone or anything he had words for. Petunia's head is heavy on his knee. She hasn't growled once. That's what bothers him most. When she's scared, she growls. When she's alert, her ears shift. But this—this stillness, this waiting—feels like she already knows what it was. Like she's been expecting it. Bob's fingers find the thick fur behind her ear, and she leans into the touch without opening her eyes. "You saw it too, right?" he whispers. Her tail thumps once against the porch. That's her yes. He thought about waking Johnny. Thought about calling out to the orchard where the light had hovered, demanding it come back so he could prove it was real. But something held him here instead. Something that felt less like fear and more like the moment before a door opens—when you know someone's on the other side, but you don't yet know who. A bird calls from the cottonwood by the creek. The wind shifts, carrying the smell of dry grass and irrigation water. Normal. Familiar. But the air feels thinner than it should, like the world is holding its breath alongside him. Bob pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. Petunia shifts, adjusting her weight, her warmth solid against his leg. "If it comes back tonight," he says, "we're following it." Petunia opens her eyes. Looks up at him. And for a second, Bob could swear she's not surprised at all. Dust motes drift through a beam of sunlight. Somewhere in the orchard, a branch creaks. Bob watches the empty space where the light had been, and waits for the sky to do something it shouldn't.