Mike stared at the casket, which was covered in wildflowers. Bo hadn’t been allowed on the grounds—the funeral director had been firm. The dog was left in a police cruiser under Officer Miller’s watch.
The pastor invited Mike to say a few words. Mike walked to the microphone, clutching a piece of paper he never unfolded.
“My daughter,” he started hoarsely, “loved to collect simple stones. She’d bring home ordinary gravel and call it a treasure.”
He paused, trying to breathe. “She used to say, ‘Daddy, people are like stones. Everyone has something pretty inside, you just have to look closer.’ At six, she understood what most people never learn. She saw the treasure in a broken dog, in strangers, and in me…”
As Mike returned to his seat, soft music began to play. In the back, hidden behind a large monument, stood Jim Miller. He had come to say goodbye to the niece he barely knew, keeping a respectful distance.
Suddenly, the service was interrupted by a noise at the gate. Officer Miller was running up the gravel path, barely holding onto a lunging Bo.
“I’m sorry!” he shouted. “He broke the window of the cruiser! I couldn’t hold him!”
“Get that dog out of here!” the funeral director protested.
Mike looked up. “Let him come. He earned the right to say goodbye.”
With a reluctant nod from the director, the officer loosened the leash. Bo walked slowly toward the casket. But instead of grieving, the dog suddenly tensed. He jumped onto the lid, lying down in a sphinx-like pose, his ears forward, his body taut.
“What is he doing?” people whispered.
Jim Miller took off his sunglasses, squinting. His combat experience told him this wasn’t a posture of mourning.
“He’s on watch,” he muttered.
Bo began to make that rhythmic whining sound—the seizure alert.
“He’s alerting!” Mike whispered, feeling the hair on his neck stand up. “Why is he alerting?”
At that moment, Bo barked—loud, demanding, the way he did only in a crisis.
“Remove the animal! This is a disgrace!” the director yelled.
But Jim was already pushing through the crowd. “Stop!” his voice boomed. “I was a medic. That dog is giving a medical alert!”
“My daughter is gone,” Mike said hollowly. “The doctors confirmed it.”
“Dogs sense things machines miss!” Jim insisted, standing over the casket. “In the field, we had dogs that found life where we’d already called it. Open the casket!”
“This is illegal!” the director shouted. “Health codes…”
“To hell with the codes!” Mike roared, looking into Bo’s eyes. “If there’s even a one-in-a-million chance… Open it! Or I’ll tear it open myself!”
Chief Miller stepped forward. “I’ll take the responsibility. Officers, help him.”
In a stunned silence, the lid was lifted. Zoe lay on the white satin, looking like she was merely sleeping. Jim immediately pressed his fingers to the girl’s carotid artery. Seconds felt like hours.
“I’ve got a pulse!” he gasped. “It’s faint, maybe six beats a minute, but it’s there!”
Dr. Chen, who had also come to the funeral, rushed to the casket. She checked Zoe’s pupils with a small light and gasped. “There’s a reaction! It’s catalepsy—a rare state of suspended animation. She’s alive!”
The cemetery became a field hospital. Bo jumped down and took a protective stance by his girl. A medevac helicopter was called, but the dispatcher reported a delay.
“Get her to the hospital in the ambulance!” Chen commanded…
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