I wasn’t supposed to be near the water that day. I was on break from the marina café, just 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 just this morning.
It was my brother.
And then I remembered what he told me last night, right before slamming the door…
“I can’t take it anymore, Evan. Everyone’s got it figured out but me.”
He hadn’t come back after that. I’d thought he’d just gone to clear his head, maybe sleep in his car like he sometimes did. I didn’t think he’d go near the lake. He hated the cold, hated the idea of deep water.
