One frigid evening in January, Harold settled into his armchair with a blanket, Rusty curled at his feet. He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was on the floor.

Pain shot through his hip and leg. Panic flared. He tried to move but couldn’t. He had fallen badly, and the phone was across the room, hopelessly out of reach.

His mind raced. He lived alone. No one was due to visit for days. The cold air seeped in from the drafty window, and a terrifying thought struck him: What if no one finds me in time?

Rusty barked sharply, circling Harold in distress. The little dog pawed at him, then at the door.

“Rusty… hush,” Harold groaned, though tears pricked his eyes. He hated the thought of dying alone, helpless, with only the dog to witness it.

But Rusty didn’t hush. He darted to the back door and scratched furiously, then yipped again, louder this time.