There's a small correction that happens every time someone says it wrong. Not hostile — just immediate. A quiet insistence from the person behind the counter, the neighbor on the bluff, the kid walking home from school along Bay Avenue. It's Highlands, not the Highlands. One word. No article. The difference matters the way postal codes and tide tables matter — precision is respect.

The confusion is old. Settlers named the place for the Navesink Highlands, the ridge of glacial clay and sand that rises two hundred sixty feet above the bay — the highest natural elevation on the Atlantic seaboard south of Maine. Maps through the 1800s drifted between versions. But when the borough incorporated in 1900, it landed on Highlands. Singular. A proper name, not a description. The kind of detail that separates people who live here from people passing through.

This crew carries the correction across the chest. Strikethrough on "the," proper noun intact. A polite correction worn at shoulder height. Midweight fleece, good for October mornings when the wind pulls straight off the Narrows and the Twin Lights are still fogged in at noon.

It's the shirt you wear when someone gets it wrong and you don't feel like explaining again. The shirt does it for you.