A Dry Encampment

The damp night air signaled that remaining exposed on the open patio flags was no longer acceptable tactical procedure. Cradling Barnaby securely in my left arm while gripping my briefcase, I executed an orderly withdrawal beneath the heavy wooden storage bench beside the wall. In the dry gloom between the bench feet lay an empty, clean metal sardine tin and a dried, curled hydrangea bloom. With calculated composure, I set my briefcase upright to block the draft, then used my boot to clear a patch of dry dust. I broke the brittle hydrangea blossom into soft bedding, packing it neatly into the aluminum tin. With gentle precision, I settled Barnaby into the scented cushion. He tucked his paws in and let out a soft sigh of supreme contentment. Sector fortification complete.