Folded Ridge

The march inside ended at the low couch. Folded on the floor cushion lay a heavy wool blanket. Thick charcoal weave. Dense tiers. I stepped onto the lowest fold. The fabric compressed beneath my claws, stiff and supportive. Good. I hauled my frame up the stepped edge to the flat ridge on top. I sank my stance into the coarse grain and twisted until my tail burrowed deep into the seam. A reinforced bunker. Outpost established. The room is quiet.