That dark and Gloomy night had an un-earthly cold to it. But through that gloom and darkness, a single pinprick of light from a campfire shined. It wasn't just anyone’s fire, it was my fire. I built it and started it myself for the enjoyment of my family. Only the night knew what was to happen on that terrible night.

It was the heat that first hit me. Not that pleasant heat I felt five minutes ago, but the searing, blood boiling heat. It’s not that heat that defeats the cold of night. It’s the heat that demolished cold and everything else it touches. You know that campfire you have every time you go camping? That essential tool every marshmallow needs to become a smore? Well, it has been proven that your most beloved campfire has had the most camping accidents happen in the last ten years. Most of those injuries were to kids, and almost half of them didn't listen to their father figure.

I didn't listen. It was just an ordinary night camping, roasting marshmallows, and playing with my brother and his trucks. As the night dragged on, my mom called from inside the trailer for bedtime. Coincidentally, my marshmallow had just gotten golden brown, so I asked to stay up till I finished my s’more. My Mom said that I could, but stated that my brother had to get to bed. As the shuffling of feet and the rustling of kids in bed sounded behind me, I started methodically nibbling on my s’more. Unbeknownst of my mom, I started to pace the ring of rocks around the fire.

“Dalton, can you please stop walking on the fire ring.” Dad asked.

After a moment of thought, and when my dad was out of sight, I decided to ignore his request and resumed pacing. I never finished the s’more.

I stumbled on that damn truck, and then started the long agonizingly slow and painful fall into the depths of the heat and fire. My brother left one of his trucks on the fire ring as an “experiment”. He always did weird things with his trucks. The one thing I kept thinking about was when Jimbo from treasure planet fell into the chasm. I now realize that I was thinking about what was happening to me. Falling into my own chasm of pain.

Our Dads. So full of useful advice yet so rarely listened to. We ignore them not because of overconfidence, but because of our own fear of being wrong. Because we are all afraid of what will come to be, whether you admit it or not. If you often ignore your dad, at least listen to me. Don’t ignore him, and one day you might just thank him and me someday.

A moment later, the night was once again dark and mystical, but colder. Much much colder. Almost as if all the heat in the world had been snuffed out. Not thirty minutes later the pain would hit me and the whole campground would know what happened.