A staccato knocking had John jerking away, turning to see Christie accidentally drag the back end of the pitchfork against the far wall of the barn as she struggled to move the hay. A few harmless pieces of tack were knocked to the floor, but she was seconds from hitting a section of nasty-looking tools. John reacted without thinking. He lurched futilely in her direction before projecting his Visity at her. He didn’t prepare a pattern or even an exact intent; he just wanted to stop her from getting hurt.
Michael also reacted, lunging for the small girl and shouting, “Christine, STOP!”
Christie looked up at them, her light brown eyes wide in confusion, but she did not stop the swing of the handle. John watched in horror as his projection reached her and detonated like an invisible bomb, sending Christie and the pitchfork flying in opposite directions. The side of one of the prongs clipped her hard under her little chin as she was thrown roughly away from the wall of hanging tools and into the side of a stall. Her body hit the old wood with a sickening thud before she ricocheted off it onto a dirty pile of hay. The few seconds it took John to reach her were pure torture. He found her on her back staring wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Christie sucked in a long, deep breath and then her face turned dark red as she scrunched her eyes and opened her mouth to let out an ear-splitting scream. John and Michael hovered over her, not knowing what to do, afraid to move her. She solved that problem by rolling over to her knees and pushing herself up, drawing short, quick breaths to fuel her wail. She turned and wobbled towards John, holding out her soft toddler arms towards him in the universal “pick me up” gesture.
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