The car lurched violently, swerving into the adjacent lane. A sigh escaped my lips. Another reckless driver. The lack of self-control was infuriating.
I watched the vehicle draw closer to the sidewalk, a sickening predictability in its trajectory. It swerved toward the crosswalk. A boy engrossed in his phone finally looked up. His eyes widened, freezing him in place. The car was almost upon him.
Instinct took over. I launched myself toward him, shoving him with all my force. The car roared past, slamming into the brick wall behind us with a sickening crunch. I turned to the boy. He was out, unconscious, his face pale. The crowd, still fixated on the wreckage, didn't register our presence. I scooped him up, his weight surprisingly heavy, and fled down the sidewalk. My house wasn’t far.
I carried him into my bedroom, laying him gently on the bed. A bruise was already blooming on his forehead. He must have hit his head during the shove.
A concussion. And, indirectly, my responsibility.
I placed my hand on his forehead, channeling my energy. The power flowed through me, a warm current, knitting the damaged tissue. The healing triggered a response. His eyes fluttered open. I pulled my hand back, watching him blink slowly. He looked around, disoriented, then fixed his gaze on me. He sat up abruptly, wincing.
“Ah! Who the hell are you?!”