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Thrown backward by the sheer force of the blast, I landed hard on the damp grass, the ladder clattering beside me, a twisted, smoking relic. The acrid stench of burning wood instantly filled my nostrils, thick smoke billowing from the shattered remains of what, moments before, had been a sturdy tree. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and disbelief. I lay there, gasping for air, the terrifying reality slowly seeping into my stunned mind. If Max hadn’t stopped me – if I had dismissed his frantic warnings and been even a few seconds quicker to ascend that ladder – I would have been directly at the trunk when the lightning struck. Inches, perhaps milliseconds, separated me from being a charred memory. Across the yard, Max barked, a desperate, frantic wail, pulling against his chain with all his might, his earlier whimpers now making horrific, gut-wrenching sense. He knew. But how could a dog have possibly known?
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