He had five dollars to his name, and it was cold out. A paycheck would be coming in that Friday, but until then, he was basically broke. Except for that soft, crumpled five dollar bill in his pocket. Jason assumed that after that was spent, then he would be “officially” broke.

But it was cold, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He desperately needed something to keep him warm. His mother had always teased him about the fact that he was always cold, so his jacket collection was second to none. But his scarves had gotten worn out over the years, and now his neck was taking the full force of a Chicago winter, and his skin wasn’t very happy about it.

So Goodwill it was. And with five dollars, he could only hope that it was sale day. He needed a scarf…badly.

Goodwill was filled with the usual folks: the poor ones, the thrifty ones, the hippie ones, and the ones that looked like they had just dumpster dived out back. Then came the ones that were just looking for deals, and the ones that looked as though their parents were making them come, judging by the size of their handbags and hoop earrings. Maybe it was them trying to teach budgeting. Jason shrugged and continued on its way.

Goodwill always had an interesting smell, one of cheap soap and old air conditioning and stale mothballs. It was an odd smell, not completely unappealing, but not a comfortable smell. It wasn’t the smell of warm homes and smiling faces. It was a conforming smell. But it made the whole experience in the massive warehouse of a building easier. Not as much to distract him from his mission.

The scarves were located at the end of each row of shirts and pants, but he knew what they were. Those were the fancy scarves, the ones with fancy patterns of birds and paisley and swirls. It wasn’t as though those were unacceptable, but he would rather not be walking around in those. He got weird enough looks already with his fraying shoes and odd jackets of all colors and designs.

It took him a few rounds. He had to pass all of the old video cassettes and records and other crap that no one but junkies would buy, and then past the old vintage couches from past marriages and dorm rooms, and through the color coordinated trinkets of all sizes and shapes and usefulness. They were on the first rung. How had he missed them? He shook his head and began rifling through them.

His fingers ran along the fabrics, feeling the close knit threads all worn from age. They had all been worn by someone before, someone who for some reason had decided that a cold neck was better than these old scraps of fabric. Or maybe they had been replaced, like a pair of old shoes.

His fingers rested on one in the middle. It had a looser knit than the others, and he slowly drew it out. It wasn’t much to look at, old and tan, like the color of sand. But the yarn was different. The others had been factory made, with tight threads, but this one…this was hand knit.

The loose threads were familiar. He used to have a hand-knit blanket. Over time, the threads had gotten looser and more worn, until he had been able to pop two or three fingers between stitches at a time. The yarn on this scarf hadn’t gotten to that point yet, but it was getting there.

Maybe that was what drew him to it, a sense of nostalgia. Like his jackets, there was something that reminded him of better times. Of warm sunlight, of home-cooked food, of places that weren’t apartments in the middle of freezing cold Chicago. He gave a small smile as he tied the scarf around his neck.

And oh, look, it was on sale.