The 4th of July weekend was supposed to be fun.

My cousin, Marissa, accompanied me to my friend, Ellen's cabin, where the three of us were going to spend the weekend shooting our fireworks and having a nice time.

The day started off fine enough. We had about $200 worth of fireworks, plenty of food,

and some other enhances of fun.

Seeing as how we had a decent stockpile, we figured we could start the fun early while it was

still daytime.

We set up some of the lower yield items and took turns launching them while sipping

beers. The cabin was set in a pretty level field, with a small grove about half a mile behind

it.

We were sure to aim the rocket straight up and away,

so that even if they fell without detonating,

they wouldn't land within the grove.

One firework fired from a decorative cardboard launch pad, went soaring through the sky

like an artillery shot, trailing red smoke as it went.

We waited for the inevitable boom of its detonation, but after more than the

instruction allotted time, heard nothing. The, oh no, panic then set in and the three of us went sprinting into the grove.

Ellen, fumbling with a fire extinguisher she brought as she ran, Marissa scooping up some water bottles from a pack.

We entered the grove and immediately smelled smoke.

Ellen sprinted ahead of me, cursing as she went.

Marissa kept pace with me.

After no longer than ten seconds of all-out sprinting, the three of us entered a clearing and

came upon a building of flame.

...