After my mother died, I started volunteering at a hospice because I could not bear going home to an empty house. That was where I met Nathan, a dying man with no visitors, no emergency contact, and one final request that should have made me walk away.<\/p>\n
Two years after my mother died, I started volunteering at a small hospice outside town.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
I told people I wanted to help.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
The truth was that I needed somewhere grief could exist without anyone asking when I planned to move on.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nNathan had one leather bag and no emergency contact listed.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n
\nThat was where I met Nathan Cole.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nHe was fifty-nine, sharp-eyed, and annoyed by almost everything. He hated weak coffee. He hated daytime television. He hated when nurses called him brave.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\nMost patients had flowers, photographs, or relatives who arrived carrying food.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nNathan had one leather bag and no emergency contact listed.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\n\n\u201cYou remembered cream in my coffee.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n
\nDuring my second shift, I brought him coffee from the cafe across the street.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
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