Cloudy With a Chance of Missiles

It’s nine o’clock on Thursday night. Friday night in the Middle East. The weekend’s here and all are heading home or with their kids, or out and about at bars. I’m with my fellow students, walking on wet walkways of our University. The skies are almost clear, the moon is out. It’s fresh and quiet when the siren begins to make its whine. We freeze. We are between the buildings and three thoughts stream to our minds: is this a real siren, which building do we go to, are our loved ones safe? We see a building ahead of us where I know to be a shelter, we walk towards it as we call our loved ones. “Go to a shelter,” I tell my wife. She runs down the stairs. The shelter is closed. “I don’t have a key. I don’t have a key.” The line goes dead. We are in front of the doors, the guard on the other side, won’t let us in. We stare at him as one of the girls, falls into a panic attack, flack back to a previous terror attack. Then we hear it. Explosive boom, not far, it shakes the ground. Then siren is quiet. I call and call and call. No answer. What have I done I think, bringing her here? <a href="https://medium.com/@samphittle/its-nine-o-clock-on-thursday-night-42f02da967c9">Click Here</a>