The wood splinters and leaps up as the bomb hits the ground.

Everyone starts to scream and flee as black cylinders of hate start raining down. Frantically, I look around.

“Azalea!” I call. A big chuck of mud smacks me in the face and lands in my mouth. I spit it out and keep calling my daughter’s name. “AZ-A-LE-AAA!”

Another bomb lands behind my back, and the shockwave knocks me over. What kind of demon decides to bomb a playground?!

I hear tiny, begging whimpers coming from a few feet away. I keep spinning my head madly, until my gaze finally lands upon a patch of trees outside of the cruel concrete.

There she is! Small and pleading and quivering in fear.

I forget everything else, including the bombs that are falling, and I run. I run to my little girl and I scoop her up, trying my hardest not to squeeze all the air out of her. Her tiny hands grasp bunches of my shirt.

“I’m scared, Daddy.” She whispers in my ears.

“Me too, sweetie.” I reply. Honestly, I’m just happy she’s alive.

I hug her one more time as another bomb lands where I was standing just a few moments ago.

Finally, I let Azalea out of my shaking hands, which she holds as soon as she’s on the ground, staring up at me with wide eyes.

“Come on.” I say, still a little shaken up. “We’re going home. **_Now_**.”

During our brisk walk to the car, neither of us say a word. For a moment, I feared Azalea would never talk again.

Just as I open the driver side door, she says, “This’ll be an interesting story to tell at school tomorrow!”

And I have no other choice but to laugh.