Bobby Greyfriars stood at the cemetery gates as the last visitors left for the day. His ears swiveled, catching every sound in the evening air. For three years, he'd guarded Greyfriars Kirkyard against those who came to damage graves and scatter trash. His brown eyes scanned the rows of weathered headstones. This was his duty. This was his home. The terrier trotted through the cemetery paths, checking each section. He stopped at his gravestone, the one bearing his ancestor's name. This spot gave him the best view of the grounds. From here, he could see anyone who entered after dark. He sat down, his leather collar creaking as he settled into position. A bicycle leaned against the stone wall near the entrance. Bobby had learned to ride it months ago, balancing on the pedals and gripping the handlebars in his teeth. When vandals struck other parts of town, he could race through the streets to return quickly. The vintage frame rattled, but it moved fast enough. Bobby pulled a small camera from behind a loose stone near his post. He'd hidden it in the dead grass by the gate that morning. Tonight, he would set it to record the entrance. If the vandals came back, he would have proof. He carried the device in his mouth and placed it between two low headstones. The lens pointed toward the path. Bobby returned to his gravestone and lay down to wait. The city grew quiet around him.