The stone meets the fennel with a rhythm older than the Mojave itself. Crack. Pause. Crack. Lizard Lou's claws work with precision, each motion deliberate, the scent rising in slow curls through the dry air. Johnny Maverick's guitar leans against the Joshua tree, its strings catching the low wind. A hum—barely audible, more vibration than sound—travels up the neck and into the wood. Lou stops grinding. His amber eyes, catching the last of the sun's fire, fix on the instrument. "You hear that too, don't you?" There's no one else here. But Lou isn't talking to himself. The fennel scatters as he sets the stone down. He crosses the distance in four quick strides, his vest brushing the dust. He places a palm flat against the guitar's body. The hum travels through his scales, up his arm, settling somewhere behind his eyes. It's a frequency he recognizes. The same one that pulled him from the ruins three nights ago. The same one that led him here, to this table, to this grinding, to this patience. He closes his eyes. The wind shifts. The Joshua tree creaks. And somewhere, not far from here, a boy and his dog stop walking. Petunia's ears flatten. Bob's hand finds her fur. "He's close," Bob says. "Lou's close." The guitar strings glow—softly, briefly—then go still. Lou opens his eyes. He turns back to the table, picks up the stone, and begins to grind again. But now he's smiling. The desert remembers everything. And what it forgets, he finds.