A Crisp Tip

Silence surrounded me. I was resting flat against a soft, woven expanse of pale fabric. With slow, deliberate care, I shifted my weight—and felt the joints in my arm give way to my own will. I lifted my right hand, delicately pressing one white-tipped finger against the textured cotton weave beside me, feeling every raised thread. Then, with a gentle, calculated breath, I brought my fingers up to touch the brim of my hat, tilting it down just an inch into a poised angle.