The forest had gone quiet. No crickets. No wind. Just the sound of Bob's breathing and the soft thud of Petunia's tail against the underbrush. Bob's fingers traced the coordinates carved into the wood of Johnny Maverick's guitar case. The lines were fresh—the edges still pale, the splinters soft. Someone had done this recently. Maybe today. Petunia whined low in her throat, her massive head turning toward the dark between the pines. Bob followed her gaze. Nothing moved. But the feather lying beside the coordinates pulsed—a slow, rhythmic glow, green as new leaves under moonlight. He picked it up. It was warm. Not from the sun—the sun had set an hour ago. This warmth came from inside, like it was alive. "Johnny's been here," Bob whispered. Petunia's ears flicked, but she didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the trees. The glow quickened. Once. Twice. Then steadied into a soft, constant hum. Bob pulled out his device. The screen flickered, then displayed a single line of text: "COORDINATES MATCH. FREQUENCY LOCKED." Petunia growled—not at the feather, not at the trees. At something behind them. Bob turned. The forest was empty. But the hum in his hand had changed pitch, and the feather's glow now cast long shadows across the ground. He tucked the feather into his pocket, closed the guitar case, and whistled once. Petunia fell in beside him, her body low, her steps deliberate. They walked fast, not looking back, the coordinates burned into his memory. Somewhere in the dark, a branch snapped. They didn't stop.