The house settles into its midnight bones. Floorboards creak as the furnace kicks on, a low shudder through the walls. Bob's breathing evens out, chest rising and falling beneath the olive-green sweatshirt he refused to take off. Petunia waits. She counts his breaths. She always does. The rhythm tells her how deep he is, how far gone into dreaming. When the seventh breath comes slow and full, she moves. Her nose presses against his hand, just below the wrist where the pulse flutters. Warm. Steady. Alive. She nudges once, twice, then pulls back. On the bed beside him, his jacket lies crumpled. She takes the collar between her teeth, careful not to tear the fabric, and drags it across his chest until it covers his shoulders. He stirs, murmurs something soft, then stills again. Petunia circles twice before settling at his feet. Her massive black body forms a curve around his legs—protective, familiar. But her head stays up. Her ears swivel forward. The window is dark. The night beyond it is quiet. Too quiet. No crickets. No distant truck on the highway. Just the sound of her own breathing and the faint, almost subsonic hum she's learned to recognize. The same hum that came from the footprint at the creek. The same hum that vibrated through the glowing rock Bob hid in his sock drawer. She watches the glass. A shadow passes—not outside, but on the surface of the glass itself, like something breathing on the other side. Petunia's growl starts in her chest, low and constant. She doesn't wake Bob. Not yet. But her eyes never leave the window, and her body stays coiled, ready. The hum grows a fraction louder. She can feel it in her teeth.