I wasn’t supposed to be near the water that day. I was on break from the marina café, grabbing a sandwich by the dock when the helicopter buzzed in out of nowhere. People started pointing, some filming, but I couldn’t move. Something about it felt off.
Then I saw the dog.
A massive black-and-white one, suited up in a neon rescue vest, standing steady at the edge of the open chopper door like it had done this a hundred times. The crew was shouting over the rotors, pointing down to the lake.
I followed their line of sight—there was someone struggling in the water. Head bobbing, barely visible. Too far out for anyone on shore to reach.
Suddenly, the dog leapt.
Full-on dive, straight into the lake. It vanished under the surface for a second, then popped up and made a beeline for the drowning person.
I didn’t realize my feet had started moving. I climbed onto the railing for a better view, heart racing.
That’s when I saw it.
The person in the water—soaking, flailing, barely conscious—was wearing the same windbreaker I’d helped pack into a duffel this morning.
