The porch boards are cold through Bob's jeans. He's been sitting here since the sky started to lighten, the letter unfolded across his knee, creased along lines he's memorized. Petunia's head is heavy on his thigh, her breath a slow rhythm against his sleeve. The handwriting is old—not old like his dad's, but old like the words have been waiting a long time to be written. The paper smells of dust and something metallic, like rain on dry earth. "I know what happened on the night the first machine came through Okanogan. I know because I was there. And I know what's coming back." Bob reads it again. The same words he's read every morning for a week. Each time, they feel heavier, like the ink is sinking deeper into the page. Petunia shifts. Her tail thumps once against the wood, then stops. She's watching the treeline at the edge of the property, where the fog clings to the pines. "You feel it too, don't you?" Bob whispers. She doesn't look at him. Her ears are forward, fixed on something beyond the mist. Bob folds the letter and slides it back into his pocket. The paper is warm against his hip, like it's been holding the heat from his body. Or maybe it's been warm all along. Petunia stands. Her nose lifts, tasting the air. A low rumble starts in her chest—not a growl, not a whine. Something in between. Something Bob has never heard from her before. He stands beside her. The fog parts for a moment, and he sees it: a shape at the edge of the field, still as stone, watching. Petunia's paw presses over his shoe. She doesn't bark. She doesn't move. She waits. And Bob realizes the letter didn't find him by accident. It found him because someone knew he would be the one to read it.