Newsprint Bunker

The metal door groaned shut behind me, sealing out the night wind. Darkness engulfed the steel chamber. Under my claws lay a thick, fibrous stack of discarded newsprint. A cushioned redoubt! I lowered my snout and shoved straight into the loose top fold. Scritch! The dry paper yielded with a soft crunch, curling around my jaw. I planted my hind claws, backed forcefully into the layered crease, and wedged my tail deep between two heavy Sunday editions. The cold steel walls hold the wind outside. Bivouac fortified. The paper vault is locked down.