The sweater laid in the ditch, caught among the prickly brambles that seemed to like to procreate along the side of the highway. He glanced at it again as he walked by; a yellowish piece of fabric, flapping in the wind like an injured bird. He thought it was a mustard yellow sweater, but it was hard to tell with the build-up of road filth that had found a home among the fraying threads.
He passed by, shivering. Odd, he wasn’t cold. Besides, it was a balmy eighty degrees today. He stopped and turned. Looked at the trash cluttered along the stretch of road he had journeyed. The shiver ran its fingers up his spine again.
He whipped around, returning to the yellowish sweater. He saved it from the brambles clutches, wiping at the fabric. No holes. He slipped it on and smiled. He stepped to the white line running along the edge of the highway and stuck out his thumb. A red mustang convertible sped to him, knocking him into the prickly brambles that liked to sprout in clusters along the road.