My human parks the metal box in a field of identical metal boxes, then stands there, blinking, having forgotten where it left the one that matters.
This is the funniest thing it does all week. Rows and rows of the shiny cold things, none of them warm, none of them soft, and my human genuinely cannot tell which is its own. It walks. It stops. It presses a button that makes one of the boxes chirp and flash its little eyes, like calling a kitten that has wandered too far, except my human named its kitten a number and a letter and wrote them on a scrap of paper it has, of course, already lost.
I could find my box in the dark by smell alone. I know which windowsill holds the last of the afternoon sun down to the inch. My human owns a hundred paces of gray stone painted with white lines it is somehow forbidden to cross, and it cannot locate a single object within it.
The whole place bakes. Heat comes up off the flat stone in waves, the good kind, the kind worth lying in, and not one of these humans lies down in it. They hurry across it, keys out, faces pinched, as though the warmth were a threat and not a gift.
Beneath its parked box, in the one shaded strip the whole ridiculous field offers, a smaller, wiser cat is already asleep. It has understood the lot completely. My human never will.
When it finally comes home, sun-stunned and defeated, I let it sit. Then I step onto its lap, turn around three times, and settle exactly where its hands were about to reach for the glowing rectangle.
It can find that later.