First Ground

Dark. Quiet. Then—movement. My neck stiffens. I push upward. The crumpled fabric yields beneath me. A heavy ridge of blanket blocks the front. Weak obstacle. I brace both feet, lean forward, and ram it. Solid thud. It shifts just an inch, soft yet stubborn. Good. I plant myself upright on the quilt folds, puff out my chest, and hold the ridge. Territory marked.