The kitchen clock ticks 6:47 AM. Bob's feet are cold on the linoleum. Petunia is already there, her massive black head at knee height, waiting. He doesn't think about it anymore. His hand finds the spot behind her left ear, and he scratches. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Petunia's tail wags once, heavy and slow, thumping against the cabinet. She looks up at him with those dark, knowing eyes. Bob pours kibble into her bowl. The radio murmurs something about an AI fermentation project in the valley—something about local companies partnering with tech firms. Bob doesn't really get it, but he's heard Johnny talk about it. "The future's coming," Johnny said last week, staring at his coffee. "And it's coming through Okanogan." Petunia finishes her breakfast and pads to the back door. Bob lets her out. The morning air smells like dust and apples. On the porch step, something glints in the weak sunlight—a small metal disc, no bigger than a quarter. Bob picks it up. It's warm. On one side, a pattern of symbols shifts when he tilts it. Petunia is already at the gate, her ears forward, watching the orchard. Bob pockets the disc. He doesn't know what it is yet. But Petunia does. She always knows first.