Even with the drastic shift in weather Jones was sweating. He left his house sweating and he would return sweating, he was sure of it. As the degrees dropped like hints and the beads came quickly he started removing his layers. First his hat, then his scarf. Then his topcoat, then his jacket. He loosened his tie and removed it later. He unbuttoned the top button, then the second, then—against everything he knew to be himself—the third. Soon he was down to his undershirt, his beater, with his pants rolled up and his socks rolled down. He looked a positive fright, the type of person he would roll his eyes about as he passed. But it was getting colder, and it was only getting colder, and the clothes were weighing him down. Jones should have liked to have thrown them into the fire, but he couldn't imagine getting anywhere near enough.
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