We waited nearly an hour in the clinic. A little boy sat nearby, legs swinging, next to a service dog named Rocket. The dog wasn’t relaxed—he was alert, watching the door. The boy noticed me looking and said, “He saves me.” Then added, “He told me not to sit there today. He said you needed to.”

Goosebumps. I hadn’t told anyone I had a test result in my pocket. Positive. Cancer.

The boy looked at me and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll get through this.” Then he warned, “Don’t take the first treatment. Wait for the second one.”

Weeks later, I remembered that moment as my doctor offered standard chemo. I hesitated and asked for alternatives. There was an experimental immunotherapy trial. I waited—and qualified.

Three months in, the cancer started shrinking. I searched for the boy. When I found him, I thanked him.

He smiled and said, “That was Rocket.”

I asked how Rocket knew.

“Dogs feel what we don’t,” he said. “They help us remember to listen.”

I survived. Rocket became a local hero. And I never stopped listening after that day. Sometimes, hope shows up in the form of a little boy and a dog.