Claiming the High Ridge

The wooden armchair stood tall in the dim room. A straight mountain. I grabbed the rough woven throw blanket hanging from the cushion and pulled myself up. Hand over hand. Heavy timber beneath my feet. Near the summit, the knit fabric slid under my weight, shifting fast—hrrmph. I braced my weight low against the curved wooden armrest, dug in, and shoved straight upward. Made it to the top rail. Broad floor below, stretching wide into the dark. Good ground up here. Solid.