That morning felt ordinary—gray skies, clouds heavy with rain, the kind of day you glide through without thinking twice. I decided to finally tackle the old apple tree in the yard. Its branches had been dead and leaning awkwardly for months, and it was time. I set up the ladder, grabbed my tools, and felt that familiar satisfaction of finally doing a job I’d been avoiding. Max, my dog, followed closely, alert in a way that didn’t match the calm morning. He circled the yard, ears flicking, tail stiff. I shrugged it off—he was loyal, always near me.
I placed the ladder against the trunk and stepped onto the first rung. Instantly, Max froze, his body rigid, eyes locked on mine. I laughed. “Relax, buddy. I’ll be down in a minute.” But then came the tug—sharp, insistent, at my trouser cuff. Max’s teeth gripped hard enough to nearly make me slip. “Hey! What’s gotten into you?” I said, trying to shake him off. He wouldn’t let go. He braced himself, paws digging into the dirt, eyes wild with warning.
Frustrated, I led him to the kennel, latching the chain. He whined low, a sound more fear than protest. “I’ll be right back,” I promised, stepping away.
Back at the tree, I climbed again—and before my foot reached the second rung, lightning struck. The sky split with a blinding flash, followed by a thunderclap so violent it shook me to my core. The apple tree exploded. Bark flew in every direction, splinters slicing through the air like shrapnel. Heat hit me in a sudden wave, instinct sending me stumbling backward into the grass as the ladder clattered.
Continue reading on next page…