Drop to the Lower Tier

The flat plateau of the coffee table was mastered. I needed depth. A stack of hardbound books formed an uneven terrace down to the lower slatted shelf. I gripped the spine of an atlas, lowered my boots, and dropped. My heels struck the wooden slats with a solid clap. Down here, shaded from the window glare, sat an open metal tin of brass paperclips. I wedged my fist into the pile, lifted one out, and examined the cold double loop. A clean, resilient design. No weak points. I hung the clip around my forearm like a brace. Ground secured.