That morning felt completely ordinary. The sky was gray and heavy, and I decided I had just enough time to trim the old apple tree before the rain arrived. Max, my dog, paced around the yard with an alertness I brushed off as clinginess. I set up the ladder, grabbed my tools, and felt good about finally tackling a chore I’d been avoiding.

When I placed my foot on the first rung, Max suddenly froze. His entire body went tense, and his eyes locked onto me with an intensity that didn’t match the quiet morning. I laughed it off and climbed higher—until I felt a fierce tug at my trouser leg. Max had clamped down hard, pulling with a desperation that startled me.

Annoyed and confused, I climbed back down and led him to the kennel, thinking he was anxious about the weather or simply wanting attention. He whined low, a sound filled more with fear than stubbornness, but I reassured him and returned to the ladder.

The moment I stepped on the second rung, lightning tore through the sky. A blinding flash and a violent crack split the air. The apple tree exploded, bark flying in every direction. The heat and force knocked me backward into the grass. If Max hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve been right beside that trunk when it was struck.