“Have you seen the couch?” asks Bins. “No,” I say, groggily. It’s not yet seven o’clock. “Come out now,” he says, “I insist. It might be gone in half an hour and then you’ll be sorry.” There’s never any point arguing with Bins.

I could try and convince him that I can’t possibly care about something I’ve never seen. But I’d have to wake up to do that and anyway I wouldn’t succeed.

So I crawl out of bed, drag myself over to the sink, scrape a brush across my teeth and throw a warm sweater over my pajama tops. “Okay,” I growl. “Lead me to the couch.” Bins is already outside, pushing something large and grey. “Look!” he yodels. “You will love it!” Standing next to him is a tall, pinkish blob, wearing white-on-white pajamas and blinking in the sunlight like a landlocked elephant seal. “This is Carl!” says Bins, speaking in exclamations. Apparently he is the new upstairs neighbour who moved in while we were away in India. “We’ve just met! He doesn’t want this brand new couch!”

The thing is long and sleek, covered in mole-grey suede leather and can be converted into a chaise-longue by removing one of its sides. It looks ideal for a psychiatrist’s consulting room. “It’s beautiful,” I say, in a lukewarm voice, “Except we really don’t have place for it, DO WE BINS?” I cannot imagine why he thinks I might be interested in such a monstrosity. “It’s FREE!” exclaims Bins, his moustache wriggling about with the sheer anticipation of a lovely deal. “And it’s new! And we can throw something else out...”

“No, we cannot,” I say, and retreat indoors feeling like an elephant seal preparing to defend my single square-inch of beach. Bins and I are already packed in so tight that we can’t sneeze without smashing a saucer or overturning chairs. I cannot imagine why Bins thinks we need yet more furniture. When he comes back in he explains that it’s because he feels sorry for poor old landlocked Carl. “He seems really lonely,” says Bins. “He keeps his lights on all night long. He plays Country & Western music all day. He orders mountains of IKEA furniture that he can’t carry upstairs on his own.”

“What has happened to the couch?” I ask. “We left it near the Dunkin’ Donuts dumpster,” says Bins. “But we’re not supposed to leave large things in the parking lot!” I say. “Dunkin’s management will make us pay to remove the couch!” Bins wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You worry too much,” he informs me. “The couch is free. It’s new. Someone will carry it off.” I glance outside. “It’s starting to rain. That couch will get sopping wet. D’you even know whom to call to get it removed?”

“Stop worrying,” says Bins. And guess what? One day later, sure enough, the thing was gone. “Wow. Someone took it!” I tell Bins. “Of course,” he says. “Welcome to America.”

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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