At the summer camp I worked at in high school, some dumbshit camper was poking a stick in the campfire and knocked over a log that sent a grapeshot of embers in the direction of the director's 5-year-old son, who was being stupid and sitting just a few feet from the fire ring. A few small burning coals managed to fall into the hood of his sweatshirt, and a bit of smoldering quickly turned into a mess of melting acrylic just inches from the back of his head.
The director's wife panicked when she located the source of the smell. I pulled her son away from the fire and tried to smother the burning hood in my hand while calmly asking him if he was hot and wanted to remove his sweater. I didn't give him a chance to answer; I yanked the shirt over his head and stomped it into the ground.
The damage? Mostly light first degree burns on my hand, and one small blistering spot between my thumb and forefinger. The director's wife called it a heroic act, but I was more disappointed that even with all my years of scouting and watching pyromanic peers nearly kill themselves on numerous occasions, I would allow the dumbshit camper to play with the fire and let their son get so close to the hearth.
