The wind carries the last light of dusk across the sagebrush, painting the valley in amber and shadow. Petunia's nose hits the ground first—a sharp inhale, then a long, held pause. Her ears flatten. Her tail goes still. Bob's hand finds the thick fur at her neck. "What is it, girl?" She doesn't look at him. Her gaze is fixed on a patch of earth where the sagebrush grows thinner, where the dirt seems darker, almost damp in the fading light. She takes a step forward. Then another. Her paw presses down, and the ground gives slightly—a hollow sound, like a lid shifting. From the porch, Johnny Maverick watches. His guitar leans against the rail, untouched for the first time in years. He doesn't call out. Doesn't ask. He just watches the boy and the dog move toward something he's been feeling in his bones since the first drone appeared over the orchard. Bob kneels. The dirt here is loose, disturbed. He brushes it aside with his fingers, and the metal glints—a disc, no bigger than a coin, etched with symbols that seem to shift when he looks directly at them. Warm to the touch. Petunia whines low in her throat. Not a warning. Not fear. Recognition. "You've seen this before," Bob whispers. She presses her nose to the disc, then looks back at Johnny. Her eyes hold something ancient—a dog's knowing that predates words. Johnny steps off the porch. His boots crunch on the dry earth. He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, studying the scene like a man who's seen too much to be surprised anymore. "That's not from here," he says quietly. Bob looks up at him, the disc warm in his palm. "Then where is it from?" Petunia's ears swivel. A low hum vibrates through the ground, barely perceptible, like a bass note from miles away. The disc pulses once, twice—then goes dark. Johnny's jaw tightens. "I think we're about to find out." The three of them stand in the gathering dark, the valley holding its breath around them. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote calls. And the humming begins again.