Night Bivouac by the Tin

Stumped across the quiet linoleum once the house went dark, scouting an honest berth for the night. Beside the blue recycling bin sat a clean, empty oval sardine tin, scrubbed bare and dried out. Solid aluminum hull, low walls, zero drafts. I planted my bare feet firmly on the tile, clamped both hands under the rounded rim, and gave it a stout shove. Skrrr-clink! Slid it clean into the corner between the plastic bin and the wooden skirting board. I stepped straight over the rolled edge, sat down flat inside the metal tray, and leaned my back against the firm tin wall with my arms crossed over my chest. Ha! Sturdy iron outpost, cool floor, and the night watch is secured.