The porch boards are cool through Bob's jeans. Dawn hasn't quite decided to arrive yet—the light is that hesitant gray that could go either way, gold or gloom. He takes a breath, purses his lips, and blows. The sound that comes out is more spit than whistle. A wet, sputtering failure that dies almost immediately. Petunia's head cocks left. Then right. Her brow furrows—that particular Newfoundland expression that manages to be both confused and deeply concerned. She whuffs, soft, as if to say: That's what we're doing? "No, like this." Bob demonstrates again. This time he manages a thin, reedy note that holds for maybe two seconds before collapsing. "See? You just—" He makes the shape with his mouth, exaggerated, patient. "Purse your lips and blow. Like this." Petunia's tail thumps once. She leans forward, sniffing his mouth. Her nose is cold and wet against his chin. He laughs, pushes her gently back. "You try." She opens her mouth. A long, slow, warm breath escapes—the kind of sigh that says I love you but you're exhausting. No whistle. Just the sound of a dog humoring her boy. Bob grins, scratches behind her ears. "Close enough." The creak of the porch swing is the only other sound. The town is still sleeping, the orchards silent, the sky beginning to bruise pink at the edges. Bob leans against Petunia's warm side, feels the slow rhythm of her breathing. This is the good part of the day. The part where nothing has gone wrong yet. He doesn't notice the figure at the treeline. It's too far, too still, just a shape against the darker shadows of the pines. It could be a stump. Could be a trick of the light. Petunia knows. Her ears pivot. A low, almost inaudible rumble starts in her chest—not quite a growl, not quite anything. She doesn't move. Doesn't alert Bob. She just watches. The figure doesn't move either. Somewhere in the distance, a crow calls once, twice. The light shifts. The figure is gone. Bob yawns, stretches. "C'mon, girl. Let's get breakfast." Petunia rises, shakes herself, follows him inside. But at the door, she looks back. The treeline is empty now. She whines, soft, and steps over the threshold.