Bunking on the Rag

That iron C-clamp wasn't going anywhere, and the workbench shadows were stretching out cold. I scouted along the timber edge past a row of rusted files until I hit a rolled-up blue cotton shop rag tucked beside an oily tin can. Stiff from dry grease on one end, but soft in the middle. I grabbed the frayed hem, hauled with both hands, and unrolled two neat folds across the rough plank. Pounded the middle with my boot heel to test the cushion—ha, plush enough for an army cot. Slid right into the cotton trough, propped my boots against the rag fold, and clocked out. Dry, quiet, completely locked down.