Worry wart

I'm here at school today, worrying about my dad. My father is a firefighter and I could remember all the times that the static would run through the radio clipped to his belt, afterwards he would run off to grab a bag and run out the door, my mother calling to him to be safe and that she loved him. As a small child the fear never registered. But one night when I was 10, it happened. The radio shot static over the room and out the door my dad ran. It was about 8 pm when this happened and I had never been up past 10, but tonight I would. I waited awake, holding up my tiny head with one fist and flipping between cartoons with the other. I would see dad before I went to bed, I would. I couldn't sleep if I didn't. Midnight rolled around and still no dad. I began to panic. I went to mom and asked her where dad was, the answer of course being "At the fire, baby. They needed his help. He'll be home soon." I walked slowly back to my room, my mind going 100 miles a minute. The next day was Saturday and when I woke up, I saw dad. He was home. Finally. My brain started to rest, but then I found out why he had taken so long. To this day this story is still the most terrifying thing I can imagine, it sends shivers down my spine. He was at the fire, which turned out to be an arson, while they were putting it out the man who started it was being searched for by the police. Little did they know he was just under their noses, a top a hill across the street, with his shotgun by his side. He was ready to make this situation much worse. To those of you who don't know, firefighters wear the SCBA's like a scuba diver, they are compressed oxygen and therefore not only HIGHLY flammable but also extremely explosive. My dad had just come out of the building and had gone behind the truck so he could hide from the blaze and cool down a bit. He had been on the front lines for nearly two hours. As he stood behind the truck, his back to the hill, he removed his mask. A shotgun was leveled, it was focused in on the firefighter behind the truck. His finger tightened on the trigger, ready to fire. A paramedic came to check my father for smoke inhalation. The shooter had it planned perfectly. The explosion from that firefighter's SCBA would spark the truck's gas tank and everyone would go up. The police man, the firefighters, the medics, and the innocent bystanders gathered around. A bullet sped down through the air, my father hit the ground the paramedic to his right. A bullet hole now graced the side of the new fire truck. The shooter was apprehended shortly after. Everyone went home safe. He's not out there anymore as we have just received a new Volkswagen plant and they needed a fire chief, but I still worry everyday that he leaves for work.