It was supposed to be just another flight.

I was heading back to Seattle after a tough conference in Phoenix, with Max—my golden mix—by my side. Max, trained as a service dog, was my rock during moments of anxiety and panic. I always felt calm with him, especially in the chaos of flying.

Settling in the bulkhead, Max curled up by my feet, content as always. I adjusted my headphones and tried not to think about the awkward handshake with my boss earlier. The man beside me, an older, reserved type, seemed to ignore me completely.

Then Max stood. It wasn’t normal. Slowly, he moved towards the man, gently nudging him with his head. The man’s hand trembled as he reached down to pet Max, his voice rasping, “Golden Retriever?” “Mostly,” I replied.

A few moments passed in silence before the man spoke again. “I used to have one like him. Lost her last winter.” Max pressed into him, grounding him in a way words couldn’t.

As the flight continued, the man revealed this was his first flight since his dog had passed. I shared my own road trip story with Max, and we connected quietly. Then, in a moment of vulnerability, the man asked if I believed in signs. I mentioned that maybe Max, or even his late dog, was a sign.

Before landing, Walter asked for a photo with Max. He then handed me a letter addressed to his daughter—a farewell letter, a goodbye. But meeting Max had shifted something in him. He didn’t need the letter anymore.

He texted me the photo, captioned: “This is Max. He saved my life before we even left the runway.” I watched him walk away, straighter, a hint of hope restored. Max looked up at me, and I smiled, knowing he’d done it again.