Knit Fort

Night creeping in. Drafty floorboards. Needed a fortress. Spotted a heavy ribbed wool beanie slumped on the bench. Dark yarn. Tight folded cuff. Suspicious soft dome. I puffed my chest out. Rammed my shoulder into the brim to test its grit. It gave way. Swallowed me right in. Pitch black. But the ribbing stretched—then snapped back against my ribs. A squeeze trap! Unacceptable grip. I planted my stubby feet. Shoved with both shoulders. Didn't back down. Kept pushing until the wool gave up and molded to my shape. Turned around in the dark fuzz. Popped my face out through the folded rim. Warm. Tight. Fortress locked down.