The eighth floor is stripped down: no carpet, no ceiling. There’s the workmen’s lunch table, and the chairs around it. There’s water in the kettle, cold, and obviously no power to boil it. There’s a bin bag propped up against the nearby pillar, which you empty out across the floor. Amongst the flat crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers and balls of cling film, you find a half-eaten sandwich and a very bruised banana. You eat these, despite their doubtful provenance.
You also now have a heavy duty bin liner. You tear a hole in the bottom, and two at the sides, and wriggle into it until your hands and head emerge. You pull it down, and it goes as far as your thighs. It should keep you warmer, if nothing else.