Stella’s boot crunches on gravel that shouldn’t be there—too loose, too far from the fence line. Apollo’s harness jerks taut against his palm, the dog’s low whine vibrating up the leash.

"The hell—?"

He counts steps backward in his head. Twelve from the oak stump, thirty to the creek’s bend. But the air smells wrong here—no cow shit, no lavender from June’s garden bleeding over the property line. Just wet asphalt and something chemical, like the old mill.

Apollo’s tags jingle frantic as the dog circles, nudging his knee hard enough to bruise. Warning.

Stella’s fingers find the switchblade in his sock before his brain catches up. "Apollo," he snaps, using the dog’s full name like a curse. "You better be fucking lost too."

The highway growls in the distance. Closer than it should be. Closer than he’s ever let himself wander.