The museum floor was never meant to be slept on. Each varnished board is hard and Victorian, designed for thousands of feet to pause for less than a minute. Yet here I lie in the last corner of paradise.
My last meal was at some point yesterday morning. Although my water canteen just about makes a sloshing noise, it it light enough to pick up with two fingers. The air is hot and stifling now the conditioning unit is a plastic brick on the wall. An electric lantern provides the only light source for the room, and that is growing dimmer.
Then there are my companions. The animals frozen forever behind glass. A rhino's horn is a razor talon, and the glass eyes of the chimp watch me with an unblinking gaze. In the gloom something as benign as a gazelle has the air of a monster.
My chosen resting spot lies below the most terrifying of all the creatures in the room. The stuffed tiger is positioned with tensed muscles, and an open mouth is full of life ending teeth. Its face is at perfect head height for children under four.
Before everything changed, and we still used the floor for walking, I would dash through this room, or back out against the flow of the one way system. Primeval fear still ruled over me well into an age of double digits.
But sometimes in art classes I drew shadowy pictures of something with four legs and stripes. In one dream it walked beside me, the fur rippling over muscles that moved once again.
That was long ago.
When everything changed, it changed in less than seven days. They emerged from caves, and beneath the sea. From the last few spots humans had not explored.
All of them have pincers. They are taller than the streetlamps, and can cross a road in three paces. But their intelligence is what sealed our fate. They knew what corners to hide in. What wires to cut. In less than a week the country smelt of burning meat, and the lightbulbs were glass skeletons.
I knew fleeing the city was pointless. They no longer need to hide, and are in no rush.
So I headed to the museum. Thank goodness the doors were still open, and I had a light source. The stone steps echoed louder than gunshots. I found the spot I desired most, and waited.
They are calling from outside. The gurgling sound is shifting to the first recognisable human words, telling us to come outside and face the inevitable. The sound of splintering wood and breaking glass increases, and the smoke is getting to bonfire levels.
I lie here under the tiger, and take calming breaths. Those teeth gleam, and look after me, and I know this is the final thing in the world I can call a friend.
Line: When everything changed, it changed in less than seven days.