One of the ushers tried to pull him away, but Max snarled. Not like himself at all. He wasn’t being aggressive to people—only to the coffin. He circled it, growling now, ears flat, tail stiff. He scratched at the wood, whining and howling in a way that sent a chill down my spine.

Something was wrong.

I stood up from the front pew. My knees don’t work like they used to, but I found the strength. I walked past my weeping daughter, past the pale mortician who had frozen mid-step, and up to the coffin.

Everyone watched. You could’ve heard a pin drop—if not for the dog’s guttural cries.