Behind the Cushions

I climbed the steep rise of the couch cushion, digging the rigid edges of my boots into the woven seam. At the top, a brisk current caught me, drifting from across the open room. Just behind the summit lay a sheer drop into the slot between the cushion and the couch's inner frame. I didn't hesitate. Lowering myself down, my feet landed squarely on a smooth, dust-dusted wooden support bar. Tucked against the timber was a bent silver paperclip, wedged firmly into place. I ran a plastic hand along the grain of the rail. It stretched into the shadows—a quiet, concealed walkway running the entire length of the couch.