Ellie swung high with her cast-iron skillet, with as much forces as she could get. Considered it weighed at least as much as a small child. It connected with the back of the intruder’s head, firm at first, then giving with a wet, watery crack, like a split watermelon. The force traveled back up the handle, into her palm, jarring her so hard she involuntarily let go. The pan hit the wood floorboards at the same time as the man, one with a metal tink and the other with the soft, malleable thud of a sack of flour tipping over.