First Scrape

Joints locked. Then... a snap. My right arm lifted on its own. I drove the tip of my hook down against the brown board beneath my feet. Scritch. A clean, firm scrape. The legs held steady against the surface. Across the grey quilt, a lamp hummed with amber light, casting my shadow back toward the pillows. No curtain here to lurk behind, just open ground. I dug my heels into the board and held my post.