At first, she thought it was just dizziness. She had stood up too fast from the couch, the room spinning slightly, her vision narrowing at the edges. It had happened before. She reached for the armrest to steady herself, expecting the feeling to pass. Instead, her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor in a way that felt slow and unreal.

Panic crept in quietly, like a cold hand closing around her chest. She moved her arms. They worked, but weakly. Her legs felt heavy, distant, as if they no longer belonged to her. She opened her mouth to call for help, but her voice came out thin and shaky.

She lived alone in a small house on the edge of town. The nearest neighbor was far enough away that shouting would not carry. Her phone was on the kitchen counter, just out of reach. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, warm and indifferent, highlighting the dust in the air.

Buddy had been asleep near the door, his usual spot where he could watch for squirrels and delivery trucks. He lifted his head at the sound of her fall, ears alert. When she didn’t get up, he walked over, tail wagging at first, expecting a game or a treat.

But when he saw her face, everything changed.

Buddy was not a trained service dog. He had never been to obedience school beyond the basics. He was a golden retriever mix she had adopted from a shelter six years earlier, a dog with too much heart and not enough awareness of his own size. He loved belly rubs, hated thunderstorms, and followed her from room to room like a shadow.

He whined softly and licked her face, his tail slowing. He stepped back, tilting his head, trying to understand. She reached for him but could only lift her hand a few inches before it dropped again.

The word meant nothing to him in language. But in tone, in expression, in the way her body lay unnaturally still, it meant everything.

Buddy suddenly turned and ran.

For a horrifying second, she thought he was leaving her. Her chest tightened as she watched him disappear down the hallway. She was alone again, helpless, staring at the ceiling.

Buddy returned, dragging her purse by the strap, struggling under its weight. He dropped it beside her, panting, tail wagging uncertainly, as if asking if this was right.

He stared at her, then at the purse. He shoved his nose inside, rummaging clumsily until the phone slid out onto the floor. She reached for it, fingers shaking, but her hand fell short.

Buddy barked once, sharp and loud, then grabbed the phone gently in his mouth and pushed it closer to her hand. This time, she managed to hook her fingers around it.

Her hands trembled as she unlocked the screen and dialed emergency services.

She barely remembered what she said. Only that she was on the floor, that she couldn’t move her legs, that she was alone. The dispatcher’s voice was calm, steady, grounding her as Buddy pressed against her side, refusing to move.

Buddy stayed with her the entire time. When she cried, he licked her tears. When her breathing sped up, he lay across her chest, heavy and warm, forcing her to slow down. When the sirens finally sounded in the distance, he lifted his head and barked again, loud and proud, as if calling them closer.

The paramedics burst through the door, having been guided by Buddy’s barking before they even knocked.

As they knelt beside her, assessing her condition, Buddy circled anxiously, whining but staying out of the way, as if he understood the importance of the moment. One paramedic glanced at the phone on the floor, then at the purse, then at the dog.