I and two of my siblings were standing at the top of the stairs in the house we grew up in. I was about twelve; my sister was two years younger and the littlest one, my brother, six years younger. We were taking turns walking along a ledge, an unusual feature, which ran along the wall next to the stairs. At its far end it was about ten feet above the floor. The ledge was just wide enough for our small feet and the object of our game was to see who was brave enough to get the farthest along the ledge, or as we thought of it, the highest. Of course, I was winning, but we were all satisfied with our accomplishments. At the bottom of the stairs was the front door, and beyond the railing, the living room with its green fleur-de-lis accent wall and gold colored sofa. I had just returned from an excursion along the ledge when I heard the door open. I turned, expecting a parent with a disapproving scowl, but instead there was an ape of nearly King Kong size, pushing its head and shoulders through the door and halfway up the stairs.
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